


Toujours Pur

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Novel, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-31
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 06:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 30,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12405060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black remains in the past as the rest of the world thunders into the future. But even in the past, there are glimmers of the present, and in every family there are those who look to the stars.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

  
Author's notes: 1  


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**_[If confused at any point while reading this story, please feel free to check the Black Family Tree at http://wiki.unknowableroom.org/Image:Blacks.gif.]_**

_He stretches a hand out toward her, desperation etched into his handsome features. She turns away. ‘Sister…’_

_She pauses, a red blush growing from her temple. Her cream coronet is a stark contrast. ‘You are hardly my brother.’_

_‘We share blood. We share everything. How can you…why can you?’ His voice begins to crack and his eye line slips to the floor. She is sure that she sees his eyes glimmer with tears._

_She sits beside him and strokes his dark hair softly. Even accompanied with such a gentle gesture, her eyes are cold. Even before she parts her lips he knows that she is going to disappoint him. ‘It is not my decision. Our father has ordered it. I am only here to say goodbye.’_

_His grey eyes dim and for a terrible moment she is sure that he has simply died, here and now. But he speaks from below his lids: ‘Well, say it then.’ His voice is harsh and she, always quick-tempered, angers._

_‘This is not my fault. This is who you are.’ Her voice is steely, like a knife, and her words are smoke-like._

_She leaves; he blows out the single candle._

_And waits._


	2. Lilac

**_[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]_ **

A fury of colour and motion. A swirl of lilac silk, a swish of blonde hair. The tap of ivory heels on the floor. A single young woman in black sat at the pianoforte, trilling waltzes and tangos. He watched her fingers for a while. They were like spiders, skittering over the keys at such a rate. How she could keep both hands doing different things and yet in such unison, he would never know. But then he had always been clumsy, his mother told him, even as a young child.

The sheets of music, he thought, looked like poetry in a language that he did not understand. He marvelled at the way that pianist interpreted the symbols to create something so beautiful. He walked away, frowning, to a chair in the corner and wished that someone had thought to teach him music.

The hall that he was sitting in was cavernous: the melodies of the small instrument were resonated and gained power from the echoes. The ceiling was high and vaulted, the walls were hung with velveteen draperies and the floor was polished oak. Behind his chair hung an elaborate tapestry: navy with names embroidered on in gold thread. He traced the words with his finger, smiling as he always did to see his own amongst the multitudes. He spied his grandfather and the stern, lined face flashed into his mind like the light reflected in the glowing thread. Finding himself again, he inspected his siblings. Each with a birth date and, mercifully, morbidly, a space beside it. Dorea’s was the most recent, some six years earlier. He remembered clearly the day that her name was ceremonially sewn on. It had been at her naming, when their mother had held her aloft and a solemn toast in elf-made wine had been made to her health. With Dorea’s father away, Pollux, her eldest brother, had performed the tricky spell-work required to add her name to the tapestry. He had seen Pollux practising before hand, his wand a frenzy of movement. He remembered laughing slightly as he pointed out that the new baby was not to be named ‘Doreen’.

And on the other side of Dorea—

‘Miss Cassiopeia, would you _please_ concentrate on the steps!’

The fury of colour and motion had halted as a sulky eleven-year-old shot a look of pure distain at the thin man with greying hair with whom she has been dancing. Her shoes, made of finest African elephant tusk, clipped the floor sharply. She tossed her hair behind her and secured it with a jewelled pin. With such a juvenile expression on her usually maturely expressionless face, she looked much younger than she had done a moment before. Now her lilac gown seemed old for her, the nipped-in waist and the low, square bosom almost pornographic.

‘I _am_ concentrating.’ She replied through gritted teeth. ‘It’s _difficult._ ’

The thin man sighed, his face softening slightly. ‘The sooner we get the Viennese Waltz right, the sooner you can leave.’

She also sighed and tucked tendrils of cream behind her ears. As she held out her arms and allowed the grey-haired gentleman to grasp her, she glanced around the room. She caught his eye and smiled a little. Embarrassed as she may have been to find that he was watching her stumble through, she was glad that he was there.

The music began again. Chopin, he recognised slowly, and smiled. She loved Chopin. When they sat alone and he let her choose what to play on the phonograph she always picked Chopin and when each elongated note fell into the air she would smile and close her eyes for a second. She played, although he never did. The violin. His mother did not approve. She used to say that it was an inappropriate instrument for a young lady and when he asked why she would purse her lips and say that it was rather unfortunately shaped. It had been more than four years until he’d understood her. 

Cassiopeia and the thin man slid across the floor as if it were ice, might break. The music began to speed up, swelling like the bud of a tree in spring and the pair grew more regal. She even managed a slight smile, and the couple seemed to bond. The moment was powerful. Dance is like that: it can create romance from silence and passion from stillness. A man and woman dancing are like electricity, are like fire, are like a chain locking them in. Tension was mounting in the room as the music grew and breathed life into the dancers. But suddenly his sister stepped a moment out of time and the spell was broken. She grimaced, but did not stop dancing.

‘ _One_ , two, three. _One_ , two, three. Left, right, back and _turn_. _Left_ , two, three… _right_ , two, three… _back_ , two, three – _turn_ and…stop! Stop, Miss Cassiopeia, I beg you.’

Her pale features turned distinctly rosy and she wrenched her hand free from his. Her eyes stung and she squeezed any hint of eleven-year-old tears away. ‘Mr Claude, we’ve been doing this for _hours!_ ’ She was wearing her face, her scowl that is somewhere between complaint and compliance, between petulance and pain. Her eyes were wide. It is the look he has never been able to resist. Mr Claude Sperrier, however, seemed to distrust it. His voice had an edge on it as he gestured to the pianist and grasped her hands.

‘And we shall continue until you get this _right_. _One,_ two, three. _Left,_ two, three. _Right_ , two- _Right_ , Miss Cassiopeia, right! Annnd…. _turn_ and _one_ , two, three. _One_ , two, three. _Left..._ There you go. See? Was that so difficult?’ Her scowl was wretched, but the figures were beautiful. As they guided one another across the floor the room seemed to grow quieter. Even the music faded into the background, for all focus was absolutely concentrated on the man and the woman in the moment.

A sharp crescendo, and the song ended in a climactic culmination of light sopranos and crashing bass. Cedrella smiled nervously and gathered up her music in the likeness of child caught where he should not be. She nodded to Mr Sperrier and left. As Cassiopeia walked towards the tapestry, Sperrier gathered his cloak and wand and headed towards the door. It was somehow unnerving that a man of such awkward, angular walk with so long a stride could be such a miraculously impeccable dancer.

Cassiopeia took a seat next to him and smiled, her pale cheeks pink with exercise. With a slight air of mistrust she fixed her eyes on Cedrella, who seemed to feel them as she broke almost into a run in order to escape the room. She turned back to him, fingering the lacy hem of her gown.

‘Why was our cousin playing the piano for my lesson?’ Her tone was a soft blend of inquisitive and ill tempered.

He was confused. ‘Cedrella is the only person in the house who can play.’

Grumbling, she batted back his reply. ‘The piano can _play_. I don’t _like_ having a real pianist. She makes me _nervous_.’

He took this opportunity to take the intellectual highground. ‘I think that you make her far more nervous then she makes you so.’

She rolled her eyes and reached behind her, releasing her hair from its ruby pin. She shook it around her face and watched him with piercing eyes, as if daring him to touch it.

A moment of silence passed. The scene subtly moved forwards.

‘Was I any better today, brother?’ Her face is blank.

‘Yes, far better.’ He replied truthfully. ‘Mr Sperrier always manages to get the best out of you.’

She nodded and an impish smile wormed its way onto her face. ‘Indeed he does. It’s a pity, you know, that he’s such an old–‘ and here she swore with an oath so bad that her brother was forced to shush her and look around the room to check that no one had entered.

Holding back laughter, he remarked, ’Mr Sperrier is a _very good man_.’

‘I know he is _Saint_ Marius. I never doubted that for a second.’ She doubled over in a fit of giggles. He rolled he eyes and leant against her. As he breathed in he caught the aroma of her perfume. It was opulent and rich: too much so for an eleven-year-old.

‘Why are you wearing Mother’s perfume?’ 

‘It suits me.’ She replied haughtily. He hadn’t the heart to disagree. ‘It’s called _Last Laugh_. Mother bought it in Scotland years ago, when she visited Aunt Lucretia.’ Here she fell suddenly silent and the pair determinedly did not turn to look at the tapestry, where they knew they would find Lucretia nowhere and her husband, Phineas, reduced to a blackened burn-hole.

He blushed slightly and scuffed his shoes together, bored. He glanced at her: she looked as jaded as he. As if to answer their prayer, the harsh sound of boots suddenly filled the room and the imposing figure of Pollux stood over them. As he looked from one to the other he frowned. 

‘Marius, what are you doing here? Cassiopeia, don’t you have a lesson now?’

A note of irritation entered Cassiopeia’s voice when she answered. After all, her brother was her senior by only three years. ’My lesson is finished, brother. Mr Sperrier left a few minutes ago. Marius and I were just talking.’ She glinted her eyes and observed her brother’s involuntary flinch with satisfaction. Their mother had told Pollux at the birth that twins were a mark of something sinister, something powerful, something inconceivable. Even now Pollux regarded his younger siblings with something of a fearful contempt.

The pompous expression returned rapidly to his face, although his pallor was somewhat ashen compared with a few moments ago. ‘Well, you two can _talk_ somewhere else. The Ballroom is not an acceptable place for a social gathering. Your cousin Callidora and her friend Harfang are to join you for lunch. I suggest you run along and ready yourself, sister, for a pretty dancing frock is _not_ suitable attire for such an occasion.’

Cassiopeia rose self-importantly, dusted off her gown and strolled out of the Ballroom, taking no pains to hurry. Marius shot his brother a look of deepest indignation and followed her. Pollux heard their happy chattering down the hallway, and smiled a self-satisfied smirk. Sitting in the seat that his sister had just renounced, he drew his wand. With a flash of blue light, the piano began to play a sonata and Pollux relaxed into the music, allowing his thoughts to rest on the enchanting Melania whose chestnut curls, he speculated, would rival the music for beauty.

_Last laugh._


	3. Navy

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]** _   


Cassiopeia watched Marius out of the corner of her eye. She knew well that he believed her to be sleeping, and revelled in the sense of being a fly on the wall of his agitation. He fiddled, first with a hangnail on his thumb, then with a photograph that had been gathering dust on the floor by her bed. Her eyes alighted on the photograph. Three faces glowed out of it, three skulls almost visible through translucent waxen skin.

He picked up her wand from the floor. Sleepily, she registered a note of confusion at his using hers, not his own, but shrugged it off. Concentrating hard, he prodded the photograph and muttered the words: _‘Divination posteros’_ _._ Nothing happened and his frown deepened.

‘It’s _Divinatio posterus._ And it’s more of an upward movement. Pollux told us.’

Marius jumped slightly and reddened, a colour not suited to his natural pallor. Swallowing and avoiding her piercing eyes, he repositioned his wand.

_‘Divinatio posterus!’_ He flicked her wand upwards with a hopeful glint in his eyes. Again, nothing happened. His face fell and grew suspicious. ‘Maybe the spell doesn’t exist. Maybe Pollux was just teasing us.’

Cassiopeia sat up and tugged at her virginal white nightgown, a shrewd expression firmly plastered onto her cheeks. Holding out her hands, she took the photograph and the wand and took a deep breath. 

_‘Divinatio posterus!’_ She concentrated and flicked her wand towards the ceiling with purpose, her eyes glinting.

There was a short shower of gold sparks and the photograph began to change before their eyes. 

The young girl, smiling slightly, grew thinner and more defined and for a split-second she was a perfect replication of the girl sitting on the bed. Then her face lengthened and grew to fit her large, striking features. As a young woman she was made of contrasts: her pale skin and hair burnt by her dark eyes. She became very beautiful; but there was danger in those eyes.

The young boy became taller and broader and his dark hair became elongated. He lost his smile and his energy. As he grew older still his eyes filled with disaster. As he reached his twenties a tear fell down his face and his skin moulded more tightly to his skull. As the aging slowed and the figures settled into their chosen forms, he looked like death would be preferable.

The infant he had been holding grew into a smiling, laughing child with a shock of dark curls and rosy cheeks. As she aged her skin became paler and she began to look more and more like her brother. But there was a difference between she and the others. As she, somewhere between fifteen and twenty, slowed and stopped developing, she was the only one left smiling.

Marius bit his lip. This he had not been expecting. Cassiopeia, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed. 

‘See? I knew that our brother would not have been lying.’

Marius was not happy to hear this. ‘Perhaps he was. I don’t believe that this spell predicts the future. Look at us! It must be a joke, a spell to terrify on Halloween. I’m sure.’

‘Sure, brother? Perhaps it is not that you do not believe it, but that you do not wish to believe it.’ She looked cocky, and self-assured.

‘Wish to believe it? Of course I do not wish to believe it! Look at us!’ He repeated. 

Her eyes softened. ‘We are living. We are all healthy. And look how well our sister looks.’ He nodded grudgingly. ‘And there is no law stating that this future cannot be avoided.’

He nodded again, but looked unconvinced.

She clambered out of her bed and walked over towards her wardrobe. He realised with a start that she had grown much taller. Her pale night-garment no longer reached even her knees. Her wardrobe was tall and cavernous, and ostentatiously paraded her clothes in front of her to allow her to make her choice. She selected a black satin dress with a high neckline and ruffles. Another start as he saw the new shape that the frock now had. An uncomfortably rough chill coursed through him: his sister had curves.

She turned back to him as the wardrobe closed behind her and looked at him, as if she was seeing him for the first time.

‘You’re wearing… _navy_.’ Her voice trembled.

Touching his velvet jacket he looked at her with a bewildered expression. ‘I…know.’

The little colour that had been in her cheeks drained out of them and a crystalline tear formed in the corner of her eye. ‘But…but, Marius. Surely you have not forgotten?’

‘Forgotten what?’ Icy-cold began to envelope him: he braced himself.

She let out a shaky breath. ‘Today. It is the twelfth of February. It is today. It has been a year.’

It was his turn to pale. ‘It’s…today?’

She nodded, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. ‘Our mother is seeing her friends this morning. No one will miss us.’

‘Apart from Pollux.’ He shot back, not knowing why he had a sudden urge to be so aggressive.

She shook her head. ‘Pollux knows better.’ She took a handkerchief and wiped her face. She pointed her want to his jacket and whispered: _‘Cultivatua’_. The navy glowed white for a moment, before flushing darkest black. ‘Come.’ She whispered, and he followed her from the room.

It took them no more than ten minutes to walk from the fireplace in their great-aunt’s house to the end of her garden. They walked in silence, eschewing the bright sunlight and staying in the shadows. His throat tightened as he saw the two tall tombstones at the end of the orchard, overhung by boughs of apple trees whose rotten fruit had fallen on the graves and decorated with dried autumn leaves. Seeing the derelict, desolate burial place, both vowed to visit more often.

They set to work, Cassiopeia with her wand and Marius with his hands and sleeves, clearing the rubbish from the mounds and laying wreaths of wildflowers and the roses that grew on the trellis outside Cassiopeia’s bedroom window. When they were satisfied, they stood a step away and allowed the wind to dry their tears.

She grasped his hand suddenly, affectionate and out of character. He took it and felt his stomach turn over and a warm tingle on the back of his neck. He felt this every time he touches her, sometimes just when he is with her. He called it his _Cassiopeia feeling,_ or sometimes just his _twin feeling._ He’d never had the courage to find out if anyone else has such a feeling, or even if she does. It was uncomfortable, exciting, warm and tempestuous. He felt guilty for feeling such an emotion at such a time, and mentally apologised to his great aunt and uncle.

He felt somehow helpless. ‘Perhaps we should…say something…’

‘What? We hardly knew them. A couple of times a year our great aunt would drag us here, all cloaks and daggers, and we’d sit and drink tea.’ Her voice was almost scornful as it crackled.

The aggression rose again. ‘If that’s how you feel then why are you even here?’

Another tear rolled down her face. ‘Because even the least deserve mourners.’

And suddenly she was limp in his arms, silent and shaking, and he ran his hands through her hair and whispered limp words of comfort. His _feeling_ spread. ‘We should get back.’

She nodded silently and allowed him to place his arm around her shoulders and lead her back. When they arrived home she hurried to her bedroom to change. He stood awkwardly in the hallway. He felt like he was missing an arm or leg. His _twin feeling_ had disappeared in a moment, leaving him very much in limbo.

The charm on his jacket was fading and it looked peculiar: blotchy and awkward. He walked purposefully to his room, trying to remember the counter-charm. He had a terrible memory for spells and enchantments, and little talent at performing them. Their father, not trusting his own father to teach them, had taught them magic from birth at home, preferring to allow them to experiment. Cassiopeia had taken to it like a fish to water: she clearly was gifted. He remembered how smoothly she had cleaned off the graves and felt a slight pang. Perhaps it was jealousy, or perhaps it was simply that he hated finding things that they did not share.

He recalled the counter-charm as he stepped over the threshold of his bedroom. His wand was at the back of a drawer, pushed there in a fit of pique after the last lesson when he had not managed to Levitate his feather an inch, although Cassiopeia had progressed to household objects and even, accidentally, house-elves.

He pointed his wand to his jacket and whispered the incantation, trying as hard as he could to dredge up his magical power and to imitate Cassiopeia. Nothing happened.

_‘Reverto.’_ He whispered again. Again, nothing happened. He frowned, about to try again. But he heard Cassiopeia’s steps near his room and hurriedly pushed his wand under his pillow. He didn’t want her to know.

She was back to normal and he was glad: pressed green frock, clean white face, smooth cream hair. She came and sat beside him and pulled her wand from her sleeve.

‘You’ve gone blotchy.’ And even through the harshness and the arrogance, he could hear a note of affection. She touched her wand to his arm and whispered: _‘Reverto.’_

Immediately, as it had before, the garment glowed bright white and then flushed back to its original regal navy, a paler blue where it had faded at the elbows. He muttered a ‘Thank you’, but did not smile.

Both were silent, unsure of their ground.

‘Let’s play chess.’ She said suddenly, firmly, and inwardly he thanked her for being so direct.

‘Yes.’

She pointed her wand hand across the room. _‘Accio chess set!’_ The board and pieces flew across the room and settled themselves on a small table. Another pang.

‘Knight to G3.’ She murmured, and play began.

He beat her at chess. He always beat her at chess. But this time, he knew, she had let him win. And even as he triumphantly told her ‘Checkmate’, it was bitter on his tongue. And it was bitterer still, as he watched her deft wand-work as she rearranged the pieces to their original set-up and Banished them back across the room.

But even as he envied her talents, hated her talents, he was still glad she was there with him.


	4. Brown

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]** _

A large, brown, leather-bound tome flew smoothly across the room, landing dustily in front of the twins. Both smooth, aristocratic faces looked bored: glassy-eyed and vacant. Cassiopeia’s hand reach out and opened the book, her mind vaguely surprised at the movement.

_**The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black: A History**  
 Compiled by Regulus Black 1755-1812_

‘Father, this is surely out of date. The author died over a century ago,’ Marius attempted, and Cassiopeia rolled her eyes at such a poor display. Surely, she told him with her eyes, he could have thought of a better excuse.

Cygnus, who was in an uncharitably good mood that morning, simply smiled jovially. ‘Look at the back page, son.’

Marius warily turned to the back of the book and opened it. In surprise he found himself staring at himself, in a portrait painted only months before. He’d never liked that picture, in all honesty. His thin, gaunt cheeks that he liked to believe were interesting were painted fuller, more manly. He was taller and thicker-build in the painting than in truth. Cassiopeia had told him that he looked nice, but a little like Pollux. His heart had sped, and he hadn’t been entirely sure how to take this remark. There was a short legend beside the picture.

_Marius Caelus Black, born seventeenth of May of that year, was Violetta Black’s (nee. Bulstrode) third child, born a mere twelve minutes after his twin sister Cassiopeia. He is currently aged eleven; home educated by his father, Cygnus Black, and is expected to follow in his ancestor’s descendents in joining the Ministry of Magic._

As Cassiopeia finished poring over this, Marius turned to his father. 

‘I’m expected to join the Ministry?’

A look of annoyance crossed Cygnus Black’s face like a stray bullet. ‘Of course you are. Don’t ask silly questions.’

Marius opened his mouth, demonstrably to ask if he couldn’t study Astronomy instead but, seeing his father’s lip curl, closed it again.

‘Father, am I in here?’ Cassiopeia self-interest was a Godsend at that moment.

Wordlessly, Cygnus turned back a page. A portrait of Cassiopeia, painted at the same time as Marius’ stared belligerently out of the page. This portrait, too, was somewhat romanticised. Her hair flowed like water, like creamy soup and her eyes were bright. Her angular shape was curved and womanly and her pale skin was blushed. Sometimes in the dark Marius thought Cassiopeia could look quite frightening, all bones and sunken skin, slit eyes and pale hair. He had always thought she was beautiful, but not fashionable. The woman, for it was no girl, in the painting was classically attractive, but there was nothing spectacular about her. She didn’t darken a room like Cassiopeia did, she wasn’t a flickering candle: she was a gaudy fire.

Her picture, too, bore a legend:

_Named of her great-great grandfather Cassius, Cassiopeia Helene Black was born seventeenth of May, the second child of her mother, born barely twelve minutes before her twin, Marius Caelus. Currently aged eleven, she will be married at seventeen to Charlus Potter, to whom she was betrothed at birth._

Marius frowned, his brain spinning. Cassiopeia was white, red dots like bloodspots growing in her cheeks.

‘I…I’m betrothed?’ In vain she attempted to inject some form of dignity into the question. Pathetic, she sounded pathetic.

‘Well of course you are.’ Cygnus sounded bored. ‘Arranged marriage is a part of Black family culture. Always has been. Your mother and I would never dream of _breaking the chain_.’ There was a thunder, ominous and rumbling, in his deep voice.

Cassiopeia’s words died on her regal tongue. She was speechless; Marius could hear her breath coming out in jerky almost-coughs and tiny croaking noises escaped from the back of her throat. She wiped an escaping tear from her cheek and looked back at her father, breathing quickly. ‘Why…was I never told? Wh-what about…I don’t know… _love,_ the ability to choose a life partner?’ Her voice rose in decibels and it was somewhat surreal: a small, bony girl filling the vast library with anger and pleading. For possibly the first time in his life, Marius didn’t feel like the younger twin. He wanted to hold Cassiopeia, wanted to put his arms around her, wanted to protect and comfort. Her tear-stained face tore his heart more than any of his own tears. It’s amazing, he thought, how much a twin could mean.

Cygnus sneered and rose, striding towards the door. ‘Study the history. I shall return at four to set you a test.’

As soon as he heard the click of the heavy iron door handle, Cassiopeia almost fell onto Marius, wrapping her arms around his neck and weeping into his shoulder. Her sobs were like a wrong note in music: jarring and uncomfortable. But holding her, comforting her, was like a swan-song melody.

Stealthily, he turned the page back to the portrait of himself. At the bottom of the page was a footnote.

_For other sets of twins in Black Family history, see pages 19, 246, 777, 801 and 1214._

The Gothic script informed him that he was, in fact, on page 1214, and so he turned back to page nineteen. Back here, with Black Family members from the fourteenth and fifteenth century, the biographies were far longer, as were the beards. The portraits, awoken from a decade-long sleep, protested angrily, but Cassiopeia’s well-placed _Silencio_ jinx left them ranting, raving, throwing tantrums: but silently. She, having recovered surprisingly quickly from the depths of despair, examined the page with interest.

The twins on the page were a pair of thin faced, coal-haired women. They clearly were twins: their faces bore the same markings and their height was within an eye’s blink, but something had happened. One twin, almost yellow in her sallow skin, seemed to have become ill. She was almost skeletal, ribs and collarbone jutting out grotesquely. Her twin couldn’t have been more of a contrast. If one were polite, one might call her well covered. If not, one might call her corpulent. She was as large as her sister was little, gross expanses of flesh tightly stuffed into what appeared to be black sheets. Cassiopeia giggled and Marius, sickened, turned to the legend beneath the picture.

_Elladora Ara Black (left) and her twin sister Melliflua Andromeda Black (right) were born to Delphina Black (nee Parkinson) on the thirty-first of August of that year. This pair were well known for being somewhat mentally connected, and were said to have had the ability to read one another’s minds and speak in some form of otherworldly language. This may well have simply been Parseltongue or Willowlip, which are both abilities given at birth. The latter seems more likely as it was unknown of at this time in history and so would not have been recognised. When Melliflua, at age thirty-seven, received a werewolf bite the twins grew apart, and Melliflua, who then began to be known by her middle name, Andromeda, in her anger at what she saw as her sister’s abandonment, cursed her son, Regulus Cetus with the Aufuro Curse, leaving him with no legs, crippled for life. Elladora, who swore to avenge her sister, died of gout in the year fifteen hundred and fifty, at the age of fifty-four. Her twin outlived her by a full twenty-seven years. However, driven mad by remorse for the sufferings of her niece, she became almost rabid. The year of her sister’s death Melliflua received another werewolf bite and the poison entered her bloodstream at a higher pressure, leaving her maddened and animal, even when in human form. Although it is known that she died at some point in the year fifteen hundred and seventy-seven, it is impossible to know when, as her body was discovered later that year, the lower half a wolf and the upper a woman, her eyes and brain pecked out by birds._

Marius stopped reading aloud and looked at Cassiopeia. There were no giggles now and her skin had taken on an almost greenish tinge. Wordlessly, she turned to page 246. This page told the chilling tale of Circinus and Lyra, in which Lyra eloped with a half-blood named Richard Folly and had lived happily until her jealous brother had found the couple and slaughtered both with a Bewitched meat cleaver. Page 777 yielded the tale of Sirius and Scorpia Black: when he died suddenly in a duel she murdered her husband, her three children and finally committed suicide with deadly nightshade.

Fearfully, Marius found himself opening page 801. This page, simply entitled ‘Twins’ was something of a summary of Black family twins in history, a small picture of each pair and a short legend paraphrasing their stories. At the bottom of the page read:

_Twins are said to have been cursed in the Black family, as Cygnus Archurus Black, ostensibly the first traceable member of the family, was said to have been the illegitimate child of two twins, albeit from different sets of twins. Cygnus Archurus’ own strength and courage are said to be the source of all happiness in the Black family: his parents are said to be the cause of all misfortune. Twins in the Black family are said to be bad luck._

_Considering the gruesome stories of Black twins in history, the curse seems to be very much in existence._

‘I suppose we’re next,’ Cassiopeia said flatly.

He looked at her, catching her eye line with his own. ‘ _Never._ ’

She bit her lip and glanced back at the book. Hurriedly he shut it, before she had the chance to read it again. She swallowed and nodded slightly.

He too swallowed and looked up at her, determined to say something, _anything_. ‘It’s very modern, the language.’

She nodded. ‘Well, if the book can update itself, which it clearly can, it’s not surprising that the language can modify itself as well.’

He nodded over-energetically. ‘Tricky bit of magic, that.’

‘Yes.’

They were silent for a bit, looking everywhere bit at one another or the book.

‘Father will be angry if we don’t study it well.’

‘I know.’ Her voice was choked.

They rose simultaneously and returned to their respective rooms, dazed by something that wasn’t their immanent destruction. 


	5. Dove-grey

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]** _

****

Marius brought the tall glass to his lips and drank thirstily, before handing it to his sister. Cassiopeia took it without looking and almost took a sip. Suddenly sniffing a cloying sweetness, she grimaced and reached for her wand. She muttered the incantation and the brilliant orange pumpkin juice slowly dissolved into the smoky ruby of raspberry. She gave her brother a sideways look; his cheeks were a little pink.

‘It’ll never work,’ she reminded him. ‘Pumpkin’s too strong a smell.’

He glanced at her and there was a note of defeat in his voice. ‘I know. But there’s no other drink readily available that you don’t like.’

She frowned. ‘Conjure one.’

He was silent. She drank her fill and Vanished the rest of the liquid, leaving the glass as clean as ever. She looked through the bottom of the tumbler, wondering, as she always did, why he was always so determined with this drink scheme.

‘We’d better get back,’ he told her. ‘Our Aunt Lysandra is bringing her tailors to fit clothes for tomorrow night.’

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. ‘I know. Messrs Twilfit and Tatting, I believe. The young Master Twilfit, son of the owner, was here yesterday, talking to our mother. Apparently, he is to attend tomorrow night.’

A jolt of shock ran through Marius like a lightening bolt. _Do you_ like _him?_ He wanted to ask. _Will you dance with him? Will you dance with me?_ Instead he simply stated,

‘You’re betrothed.’ Even though it killed him every time he thought about it, even though it ate him away. It only hurt him because he knew it hurt her, he was sure.

She shot him a dark look. ‘I know.’ She rose angrily, and flounced inside with less grace than she usually possessed. He rolled his eyes and followed, not quite at ease yet.

The house was a flurry of anticipation. Violetta was spending most of her time in the kitchens, giving orders to the house-elves. Pollux, his father being absent, had taken to wandering through the house giving arbitrary decrees about the colour of decorations or the flavour of truffle. Cassiopeia and Marius, simultaneously trying to help and stay out of the way, regarded this arrogance with mockery and scorn.

The pair waited for their aunt and her tailors, having been charged with the entertainment of six-year old Dorea. They sat on a chaise-lounge in the summer drawing room – a small, pleasantly lit room, so often left empty that a thin layer of dust turned the whole room a shimmering dove-grey. Dorea, so-wise in her innocence, had always had a burning admiration for her elder brother and sister. Pollux, who barely deigned to speak to Marius, never had time for her and her parents were always vaguely disappointed in having had another pointless and potentially expensive daughter. She looked up at them with undisguised rapture.

‘Why is your hair different, ‘Peia?’ Dorea’s first question was invariably the same each time.

Marius could almost mouth along to his twin’s well-worn response. ‘I’m special.’

A six-year-old frown adorned her face. _‘I’m_ special.’

‘I know you are. That’s why your hair is black.’

‘Marius’ hair is black too.’ Somehow the shared attribute lessened its effect.

Cassiopeia had no answer to that and looked uncertainly at him. He loved it when she wore that face: scarlet lips pressed together, smooth brow almost untidily rumpled. He loved to see her uncomfortable, out of her depth. He loved seeing her humanity. He loved how she never showed it to anyone else.

He sat forward on the seat and stroked his younger sister’s hair. The feeling of it between his fingers was a little too familiar, too close to home: this strange and terrible feeling of his own flowing through his hand. He had a sudden need to distance himself from it.

‘Your hair is long,’ he countered lamely. Cassiopeia, knowing him inside out, glanced at him. Her glance, loaded with scorn and yet with concern, left him feeling violated. Dorea, shifting like a cat into his stroke, simply nodded.

‘Cassiopeia,’ he said suddenly, ‘do you ever wish you could have black hair like Dorea?’ 

She whipped her head around and looked at him with a blazing fire in each eye. He looked passively back. And she knew, she knew that he was asking much more than that. But he saw the confusion in her curved lip. He knew that she didn’t quite understand.

Almost shaking, she replied. ‘No. Why?’

‘Charlus Potter has black hair. Pale hair and dark…don’t you think it would look like a young man and an old woman?’ His tone was even, almost pleasant, but his eyes alone coaxed tears from hers.

Dorea watched the exchange with innocent eyes.

Cassiopeia’s entire body trembled with a hurt and an anger that Marius fed on and revelled in. She was not the only one who could be cruel.

‘How _dare_ you…?’ She almost whispered. He returned her angry look with ease. His Blackest streak was beginning to show itself.

The pair was interrupted by the creaking click of the door. Three young heads, one pale and two dark, shot round.

‘Kaula is sorry, Madams and Sir, but Kaula is sent to tell you that the tailors is here.’ The pale body was clad in a pillowcase, which rivalled the room for neglect. 

Cassiopeia nodded curtly, her eyes returning to Marius, and announced with forced decorum that they would be there in a moment. Dorea, six-year-old eyes wide, smiled up at them.

‘Why does Kaula speak so different?’

‘Different- _ly._ ’ Her sister reminded her. ‘It’s because she’s a house-elf. She isn’t educated. She isn’t well bred. Although, sometimes, being well bred isn’t everything.’ She almost murmured the last comment. Dorea didn’t hear her. Marius did. Just as she had wanted. ‘Come. The tailors are waiting.’

He didn’t doubt that they were.

Marius was instructed to sit outside the door while his sisters were measured for gowns. He fiddled with his cufflinks, vaguely hoping these tailors would choose well. Curtailing his thoughts before they strayed too far through the door to the girls changing, he reached to the seat next to him. Tucked into the arm, almost hidden but for a corner, was a folded piece of parchment. Glancing up and down the hall, he opened it.

_To my dearest Pollux,_

_Indeed it is true, the months since I have seen you are long indeed. I’m sure you too have felt the bitterness of the winter fade softly into the spring: here it is truly pleasant weather. I must confess your correspondence is all that hides me from an early grave. Even so, there is nothing in the world to match seeing you in person, and I await the morrow’s eve with anticipation that no woman has felt before._

_(Excuse my messy hand. I write this by the weak light of my wand. I believe that my pining for you has lessened my strength.)_

_As always, all is well here. My mother and sister are becoming increasingly worried about buttonhooks and lace as the evening approaches, but I tend to leave them to it. At seventeen Ariel is, as our mother would put it, ‘absolutely ready to fall in love’, and is having great pleasure in preparing for the event, decking herself out in the latest styles and flaunting herself around the house. I heard my father remark that she would be quite hideous were she not so wealthy. The callous within me is inclined to agree. It is expected that she will be married soon, ‘most certainly to Mr Victris Potter. I believe that his younger brother Charlus is of your father’s acquaintance in reference to your younger sister. I do hope that he may tame her of the rambunctious nature that you have related to me, and that she can settle happily. He is a sweet child and well able to replace your young brother as her protector and minder._

_For my part, I do not believe that there is a time when one is ready for love. I believe that, young as I am, I know now what love is. Ariel may be seventeen and expected to marry, but she is certainly not able to love any but her own reflection. But, forgive me, I am too cruel on my own family. For fear of growing further such, I shall write off here, simply stating that any marriage of my sister’s is doomed to failure, that her lips are too well cherried, if you catch my drift._

_Save a dance for me tomorrow night._

_Forever yours,_

_Melania_

Slowly, Marius allowed the words to spread through his mind neatly, before re-scanning the page, as if the words would have changed. It was certainly from Miss Melania: Miss McMillan’s pretentious nature and self-indulgence was easily visible from her wording and her over-dramatics. If it wasn’t for his surprise, he might have laughed.

Marius traced his memories, trying to recall if he’d ever seen Miss Melania pay his brother any particular attentions. He knew little of her: shining eyes, glossy hair, a gay laugh that lit up a room. But a smile, a confidential just-between-us smile that she shared with the world, and every person to be blessed by it felt like the only one. Perhaps she had smiled at his brother, Marius did not know. The spider’s web of speculation was running rings around him, tying him into confused knots.

Cassiopeia would know what it meant.

He replaced the parchment, wishing, as he always did, that she were there with him. 


	6. Russet

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]** _

Marius cast his eye around the hall in wonder, his wide-eyed stare looking younger than he had in a long time. For a moment he wasn’t the near-adult that he had been raised to be, but a child in awe.

Cassiopeia, also feeling childishly excited, crept up behind him and stood looking over his shoulder. She always thought that it was his special brand of magic that allowed him, as he did now, to reach behind him and take her hand without removing his gaze from the room.

The ceiling had been Enchanted to scatter shooting stars down at regular intervals and golden comets fell down the walls. A harassed-looking wizard was attempting to Bewitch an orchestra to play on its own, but the strings and the woodwind were determined to be in competition, each to play louder than the other. Crystal chandeliers played prism, showering the room with light and the dance floor almost shone with anticipation. For a mere anniversary ball, this was too much. But Cygnus and Violetta never bored of demonstrating their wealth.

Somehow, he decided, the room was more beautiful when his sister stumbled and snapped her way through dance classes.

Dorea crept in behind them, clutching at her sister’s skirts and looking around in unconcealed, wide-eyed disbelief. The twins could have counted in her cue.

_Three…two…one…_

‘Can I come to the party, ‘Peia?’ She tugged on her sister’s housedress. Cassiopeia, feeling her firm grip, found herself grateful that she was not yet wearing her sheer, satin-thin ball gown.

As one, the twins turned on her: an arrogant pale head and an awkward dark one. Almost wordlessly, they shepherded her upstairs, reminding her in hushed voices that grown-up parties were not for little girls.

‘They should be.’ Was her sulky, singular comment. She slammed her bedroom door in a most unladylike fashion and Marius, listening intently at the door in fear that she was attacking things with her new, first wand, heard her grumbling under her breath as she climbed into bed. Chuckling slightly to himself, he retired to dress himself in his newly pressed tails.

There was a knock at the door. He hastily slipped on his jacket and told the visitor to enter.

A tall, gangling boy with limpid blue eyes stood in his doorway, an impish grin relaxed into his angular cheeks. He looked oddly half-formed, missing his usual companion. Without Callidora’s chestnut good looks lurking half a pace behind him, Harfang Longbottom looked strangely incomplete.

‘Marius. Good to see you again.’

Recovering quickly, Marius plastered on a wide grin. ‘Come on in.’

Harfang was long-limbed and awkward, at a stage between boyhood and manhood, waiting to grow into himself. He crossed the room, poured himself a glass of water from the jug on the end table, and sat, sprawled over a throne-like wooden chair. Marius watched him in silence, waiting politely for him to take a seat, before reaching for his bow tie.

‘My, you’re a little behind the times, aren’t you?’

Marius, startled, looked up. Harfang’s smile was openly mocking and, for the first time, Marius noticed his long, charcoal robes with a peculiarly formal collar.

‘I’m surprised,’ Harfang continued, ‘that your father still allows you to walk about in those outdated Muggle fashions. Dress robes, they are the only thing to be seen wearing now.’ He gestured to his own get-up. Marius blushed deeply; remembering, too late, Harfang and Callidora’s deeply held convictions about fashion. Cassiopeia dismissed them as shallow. Feeling the scorn and the degradation, Marius was inclined to agree.

‘Where’s Callidora?’ He considered his cousin to be safe, neutral, common ground.

Harfang pushed himself up from the chair with his arms. ‘Finding Cassiopeia, I should hope. We were called to bring you down. Your guests are due to arrive.’

Hearing that Cassiopeia was with Callidora, possibly downstairs waiting, was enough. Marius pushed his hair back with a cursory touch and motioned to his friend. The two boys made their way downstairs.

Guests were indeed trickling in through the old doors. The hat stands were Enchanted to take each guest’s cloak: a tricky little Personification Charm that Cousin Antilles had spent the past seven months helping Pollux to perfect. Marius and Cassiopeia had taken much delight in laughing gleefully at their brother’s failed attempts: the candlesticks which began to bark like dogs; the handkerchiefs which embarked on a romantic relationship, before ripping one another to shreds in a lover’s tiff and, most ridiculously of all, the grandfather clock who, upon seeing itself in the mirror, was so confused at not being human that it had fallen into an identity crisis and wound up despondently ticking away in the cellar.

Callidora, with a pleasant smile, bounded up the stairs to meet them halfway. She fell into position on Harfang’s arm, fingers comfortably wrapped around his elbow, her midnight-purple robes exaggerating her already womanly figure. She laughed like happiness was oxygen.

And standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting, was Cassiopeia.

Messrs Twilfit and Tatting had truly out-done themselves. Her gown was long, floating on the slight breeze through the door. The soft crimson flattered her skin and the low neckline left a wide expanse of translucent skin, skin that you wanted to run your fingers over to see if it was as smooth as it looked. Her hair was interwoven with flowers and she wore, around her milk-white throat, a magnificent necklace of opals.

Hardly breathing, Marius descended the final few steps, hearing but not noticing his cousin’s excited chattering beside him. He smiled at her and offered her his arm. His chest twitched as she accepted.

Harfang appeared with four cups of punch and they drank delicately, torn between childish excitement and adult aloofness. They dutifully smiled during Cygnus’ speech, they applauded their parents’ anniversary, they spoke when spoken to.

The long, thin sounds of a violin began. A soft melody was picked out on a flute. Couples began to move towards the dance-floor.

‘Mr. Black,’ intoned Harfang, ‘might I claim your sister for this dance?’ 

Marius smiled tightly. ‘Of course you may. And you, cousin. Would you like to dance?’

‘Course I would,’ replied Callidora merrily. ‘Lead the way.’

Callidora’s grip was stronger than Cassiopeia’s, and her dancing was more active. She laughingly skipped her way through the moves, making up steps that she missed. Her mother, Marius’ Aunt Lysandra, had taught her to dance, and looked scandalised that her daughter was deviating from the lessons. Marius felt detached, as if he were watching himself from above.

Callidora would never be beautiful like Cassiopeia was. There was no doubting that she was a very pretty young lady: her skin was tanned with a smattering of freckles, her eyes sparkled and her hair rested into big, russet curls. But she had none of the haunting, almost forbidding qualities that Cassiopeia possessed. She did not captivate.

And yet, he noted, as she caught Harfang’s eye and her face collapsed into an almost impolite fit of giggles, there was a softness in her cheek and in her eyes. There was truly beauty there.

Harfang, who had been spinning Cassiopeia about the dance floor at breakneck speed, approached Callidora from behind and whispered something into her ear. She began to laugh again and loosened her grip on Marius’ hand. With an apologetic face, she followed Harfang as he led her from the room.

Cassiopeia, who looked for a moment as lost as he felt, took his hands in her sure ones and began to lead him regally across the dance floor. The orchestra smoothly moved into its next piece: Chopin’s Waltz in C Minor. She delicately moved in time to the music and, as the opus took hold, she let go his hand and swirled away from him in a feather-light turn.

_A fury of colour and motion._

The flickering candles lit her haunting face. And yet she glowed brighter than any flame. She darkened rooms, yet brought light to his life. His _twin feeling_ had never been stronger.

The song finished. Cassiopeia, still gripping his hand, led him back to the punch table and handed him a glass silently. He was not convinced he could speak.

He gestured to the door, suggesting silently that they seek out Harfang and Callidora. For the first time in his life he felt awkward, even uncomfortable, alone in Cassiopeia’s company. She nodded and a half-smile drifted across her lips.

‘The garden,’ she told him. ‘We need some fresh air.’

He followed her through the great glass doors at the back of the hallway into the night. The garden, freshly adorned with Flitterblooms and Frog-lilies, shone cream with moonlight, the lake glimmering, as if the very stars it was reflecting had fallen into its depths. There was the soft trickle of fountains. Cassiopeia pointed wordlessly to the furthest one, where his cousin and her friend stood. He started toward them, but his sister held him back.

From here he could see the pair silhouetted against the moon. They were taller than he remembered, and his cousin’s figure was more adult. It dawned on him for the first time that his cousin had turned fourteen that year. Suddenly she felt incredibly old.

Harfang was taking a gulp from a large goblet as Callidora scooped up some water from the fountain and flicked it at him. With a horrified laugh he turned on her, splashing some at her and their laughter, wanton as kittens, reverberated in the stonewalled garden. He watched, absolutely gripped, as they moved in closer to one another. And suddenly his mouth was on hers and his arms were around her waist and they weren’t laughing any more.

He took his sister’s hand. Suddenly, it felt like he wasn’t somehow meeting a standard. He led Cassiopeia back onto the dance floor.

_A fury of colour and motion._


	7. Rose

**_[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]_ **

Pollux was sure that his feet were still dancing, that each sole was still tapping the floor in rhythm with the music in his head. He could almost feel the passionate energy pulsating through him: the rhythm and the beat, the tempo and the pitch. The music, and the dance.

And, of course, the dancer.

The crystals, levitated to surround the chandeliers, had shone tiny rainbows onto her cheeks, like something out of a fairy tale. There was more magic within her than could fill the entire Manor. She shone, she flew, she floated. She sparkled like sapphires and glimmered like garnets. She danced like diamonds and was radiant as rubies. She made him want to write poetry, to alliterate and rhyme. She made him want to dance, to sing, to serenade her with a lark-chorus of nightingales. He wanted to spend every waking minute drowning in her ash-wood eyes and glossy curls. He wanted to take her hand and hold it in his forever. He wanted to lay out a red carpet for her and watch her dainty feet glide along it.

He had some friends who’d call it ‘whipped’. He called it _magic_.

He called it _lost_ as well. Lost without her long, white-gloved fingers encircled by his hand. Lost without her smiling eyes. Lost without her long, shaped legs, ended with those feet, those shoes, that danced him into oblivion.

He walked the grounds of the Manor, unsure of himself. It was as if her not being there left him incomplete and alone. He saw her everywhere. Saw her emerald dress, swirling, among the bushes. Saw her blushed cheeks in the roses. Saw her smile in the sky, her lips in the lake, her hand in the willow leaves. In the wrought iron bench he saw her figure. He sat, softly.

He closed his eyes, reliving every moment of the night before. He saw he coming through the doors in a shower of stardust: radiant and fine. He saw her place a hand in the crook of his elbow and talk animatedly with him as they headed towards the Ballroom. He saw her pursed lips: slightly open, as her pointed, pink tongue caught a drop of punch. He saw her smile when he, daringly, asked her to dance. He saw her dancing. He saw her dancing. He saw her dancing, dancing, dancing.

He reached into his pocket, with one slow, almost unperceivable movement. He felt her letter with his fingers: loath, yet, to take it out. A flood of relief drained through him. He’d almost lost it once: he refused to lose it again.

He blinked and saw her, again behind his eyelids. He took out the letter, unfolded it meticulously carefully and smoothed out the creases lovingly. He was sure that he knew it by heart, now, and yet he read and reread it over and over.

_To my dearest Pollux_

__

He shivered and grinned. That he may be her dearest, when she was his everything, was like balm on a wound.

_I believe that, young as I am, I know now what love is._

And so did he! He knew, he was sure, that this painful pleasure of his closeness with her, this desire for more than her beauty: this was love! This was everything he’d ever dreamed of. _Melania, Melania, Melania._ Melania, who’s name meant dark beauty, or beauty of Black. Who’s name mean mystery, and intrigue. Melania, who meant everything in the world, and more.

_Melania, Melania, Melania._ How soft. A rose. 

He closed his eyes and allowed her to flit behind his eyes and conjure new love in his heart.

There was a rustling behind him. It took every ounce of his self-control not to jump, but to stealthily secret the letter in his pocket. He turned around in his seat.

Marius, pale-faced, walked up to him. He was dressed in his full robes; no matter that it was the glaring heat of summer. Perhaps, Pollux reasoned, he had used a Cooling Charm. The brothers sat side by side, neither speaking, each contemplating their own secrets.

A bird, somewhere far off, began to sing. The spell was broken.

‘So,’ began Pollux, ‘have they finished clearing up from last night?’

Marius nodded. ‘I believe so. Cassiopeia was helping the house-elves. I left her to it: those Cleaning Charms are not my strong point.’

‘Women’s charms can be difficult.’ Pollux agreed.

Marius laughed slightly. ‘In more ways than one.’

‘Well, yes.’

Seeing the far-off, distant look on his brother’s face, Marius decided to risk a sharp remark. ‘So, how was Miss McMillan’s dancing?’

Pollux’s handsome face turned magenta. ‘It was fine. She is a very talented dancer.’

‘So we all noticed. An owl came for you, from her. This morning.’

Proud Pollux refused to rise to the bait. ‘Did it? I shall ask after if when I return. There’s no reason for me to rush off now, is there?’ Marius scowled.

Pollux laughed harshly. ‘Just because you spent the entire evening dancing with your _sister._ ’

Marius blanched. ‘Well, we wouldn’t want all those dance lessons to go to waste, would we?’

‘No.’ Pollux said, and suddenly his voice was quieter and calmer. ‘Brother, I think we should talk about that.’

Marius held his breath.

‘You can’t keep…hiding her. You can’t keep shielding her. There were lots of young men last night who were dying to dance with her, but feared her overprotective twin brother. She is going to grow up, get married and leave you. You’re going to have to let go of her. She’s not your problem to protect. She’s not your property.’

_He doesn’t know,_ Marius thought, letting his breath out.

‘I…’ he began, ‘I understand. I’ll try harder next time.’

‘Do.’ Was Pollux’s short, spat reply. He paused. ‘I think I’ll go and see what Mel- Miss McMillan wanted.’

‘Do.’

Marius heard the highly polished footsteps of Pollux fade to nothing and looked out over the grounds of the Manor. His mind, too, was dancing through last night’s Ball. He closed his eyes and his every sense was tingling: he could taste the punch; smell the fragrant perfume that Cassiopeia had been wearing. He could watch the swing of her hips and the flick of her skirts. He could hear the soft lilt of Chopin’s Waltz in C Minor. He could feel her cool, slim, pure-white hand caught in his. He felt her. He felt her. He felt…lucky.

He thought of her married to Charlus Potter. He thought of her kissing him, touching him, dancing into oblivion, with him. He expected to feel loss, to feel pain, to ache. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t, because it wasn’t _real_. The closeness he felt to his twin, the openness they shared: that was _real,_ that was _genuine_ , that _existed_. A love for Potter, an attraction to Potter, intimacy with Potter – it was a lie. He was sure. He knew, within himself, that she’d never be a twin to Potter like she was a twin to him.

He pictured her, dancing swiftly with Harfang. Suddenly, like a flickering film, his mind turned to Callidora and Harfang kissing. He watched them together: they _fit_ so perfectly. Cassiopeia, caught in Harfang’s arms was out of place, the wrong way round, inside out and in the wrong. Callidora, relaxed in Harfang’s arms was like the final piece of the jigsaw. As Cassiopeia to her twin, Callidora completed Harfang. He wondered, silently, if falling in love was like having a twin. 

He hoped so. For having a twin was like rain after a drought and food after a famine. Having a twin was like breathing: wondrous, marvellous, and necessary. Nothing so pleasant had ever been as necessary as Cassiopeia to he.

He felt…lucky.

He called it _magic_. When they were apart he called it _lost_.

**_[Author’s Note: Sorry about the wait, work’s a bitch. Hope you enjoyed the chapter, please review! I’m not sure about the end bit. I was trying to show Marius’ naïve obliviousness. Maybe it worked. I don’t know. Would you please tell me?]_**


	8. Tawny

**_[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]_ **

****

Cassiopeia sat on her windowsill, dangling her pale legs down towards the garden. She wriggled her feet, allowing her shoes to slip off and tumble down, one at a time, before flicking her wand and Summoning them back to her thin feet.

She conjured candles at her sides, recapturing the flick and swing of flames.

She wore the crimson dress.

She allowed both shoes to fall. She called them back too her. She dropped them into the room behind her.

She Bewitched herself to make herself feather-light and leapt into the air. She began to fall, slowly, batted around by the wind. As she descended, she closed her eyes. In her mind she danced again, swung and spun by a firm, calloused hand which made her shiver and know that she could never live without her twin.

She pictured Marius’ half-curled, coal-black hair, she pictured his grey eyes. Every part of him glowed behind her eyes. Cassiopeia Black was a twin and she was happy just to be alive to witness it.

The clock struck nine. Harried, she Apparated to her bedroom. She removed the crimson dress, replacing it in her wardrobe. She had found that she liked to look at it, and to stroke it with her fingers and remember when Marius’ fingers, in the moment of the dance, had been soft about her waist.

She thought of Harfang. She thought of their dance, of being manoeuvred steadily and skilfully around the floor. She felt nothing. It must, she was sure, be because he belonged so completely to Callidora. Because of that bond, that connection between them, she and Harfang had been wooden, unfeeling. One day she would find a boy who made her feel as warm and shivery as her twin: she would find another Marius.

Something uncomfortable flickered in the back of her mind. She squashed it and redressed in a plain, blue housedress. She had a lesson.

She closed the door of her room with a soft click, and heard another a moment later, like an echo. She looked up quickly to see Marius stood there, a breath away from her. He wore a jacket that erred from her dress by just a shade. She suppressed a blush, knowing, as she always did, that he knew that she’d just been thinking about him. On the other hand, something within her murmured, he was her twin. She was rarely _not_ thinking about him.

They descended the back staircase. The steps were thin but they were side by side, neither willing to take the lead. She could feel his ribcage, his hip, his thigh pressed against her own, could feel the tensing and relaxing of each muscle as he moved. She watched his white, spidery fingers slip down the banister. She marvelled, albeit somewhat ashamedly, at how he could remain so very calm and light of breath when she was so entirely absorbed in his movement.

They walked together into the study, allowing the heavy oak door to swing softly shut behind them. At the large, mahogany desk, opposite her father, sat a plump woman, very stately and serious, with greying curls and sharp, raven-like eyes. She was reading through a report on a piece of parchment carefully; she did not look like the kind of woman who would miss anything. Even her father, Cassiopeia noticed with a start, looked awkward. He was perspiring slightly, and his collar was rumpled.

‘Ah. Children, there you are.’ They, tight-lipped, stared at him with cold-metal gazes. He shrank slightly, and mopped his brow. ‘This is Professor Marchbanks. She is going to be working through some tests with you today.’ He swept from the room. Madame Marchbanks looked at them with an arched eyebrow. She glanced back at her notes, before Conjuring two small chairs and nodding them to sit down.

‘All right, Master Marius Black and Miss Cassiopeia Black, yes?’

They nodded their assent.

Her tone grew sharper and more businesslike. ‘I am going to ask you to perform series of tasks and you are going to carry them out with every ounce of your effort, because otherwise I will make your lives very, very difficult.’

The twins drew in their collective breath. They were used to being paraded, ignored, hidden or feared; but never threatened.

Cassiopeia was sent from the room first, while Madame Marchbanks tested Marius. She sat outside the door, waiting the longest seventeen minutes (or so her grandfather’s clock told her) of her life. She tried to remember the last time that someone had forced her away from her twin. Even a simple door, when closed between them without their consent, seemed a thousand miles. She found herself ridiculously, ludicrously, close to tears. The Black blood within her concealed them. She could, she reflected, become a member of the Wizengamot. Her ability to remain impartial, or seemingly impartial, was impeccable.

Eventually, after what seemed like a torturous lifetime, the door behind her opened of its own accord and she was summoned. She tried to catch Marius’ eye as he walked out, but he did not look at her, lost in his own thoughts. There was a pang within her. She wanted to _be_ his thoughts.

‘Miss Cassiopeia.’

‘Yes?’ That innocent and yet dangerous tone was Cassiopeia’s greatest talent.

Madame Marchbanks let out a breath with what could have been a sigh. She flicked her wand and a small table appeared before Cassiopeia. Sitting on it was a small piece of parchment.

‘Would you please Transfigure this into a piece of silk.’

Cassiopeia blinked. ‘No.’

Madame Marchbanks frowned, unsubtly attempting not to shout. _‘What?’_

Cassiopeia repeated herself. ‘No. I cannot do this. I do not know the incantation.’

‘Try.’ Madame Marchbanks replied shortly.

So Cassiopeia tried. She murmured _‘Verto laneus’_ _,_ and watched the parchment turn to wool. Madame Marchbanks’ face was impassive. Placing her wand, as she had been taught, beneath the square of material, she told it firmly _‘Mansuetus.’_ The Softening Spell did little, but she noticed with some satisfaction that the basket weave of the wool became closer-knit, nearer and nearer to silk. _‘Levidensis’_ thinned the scrap of material and with a final touch of her wand and her signature _‘Cultivatua’_ the square turned pearly white.

She looked up to Madame Marchbanks.

‘You have not made me silk.’

‘I have made you an imitation.’

The older woman nodded shortly. ‘I am now going to continue with the same tasks that I asked of your brother. Is this acceptable?’

Cassiopeia nodded shortly, the perfect copy of Madame Marchbanks.

A flick of her wand and the Professor had Conjured a small box. ‘Make this fly.’

Eyeing it closely, Cassiopeia jabbed with a certain amount of force. _’Levius.’_ Obediently, the box hovered.

Madame Marchbanks wrote something on her sheet. ‘Yes, your brother attempted that one. You might like to know, my dear, that _Wingardium Leviosa_ is now much more accepted and that this _Levius_ charm that you just performed is very old hat. Now, Conjure me a scarf.’

‘What colour?’ Madame Marchbanks smiled slightly. It was the oldest trick in the book, and her father and played it on her many times. He’d send her to look in her spellbooks and find the spell to Conjure a scarf and bring it very, very quickly or he’d be _very, very angry._ Cassiopeia, full of worry and a wish to please, would run off, only to find that there were seventeen different spells to Conjure scarves. Once, irritated, she’d just performed every single spell, only to accidentally also cast a _Germino_ charm and find herself with piles and piles of scarves.

‘Green.’ Madame Marchbanks replied.

_‘Gutter gramen!’_ Cassiopeia exclaimed, her wand hand moving so quickly she thought it may simply fall off. The scarf flew from the end of it and landed neatly on the desk. However from the end of her wand also fell a few pieces of green thread and some dusty-looking wool. They landed unceremoniously on the floor. _‘Scourgify.’_ Cassiopeia hurriedly muttered, and they disappeared, leaving that particular patch of carpet a far brighter amber than the dull tawny around. Cygnus did not allow the house-elves into his office often, not trusting them not to disturb his perfect systems. Cassiopeia thought it repugnant.

Madame Marchbanks merely raised her eyebrows. She pointed her wand to the door, which swung open to reveal Marius, biting his lip and looking smaller, somehow, than she remembered.

‘Produce green sparks,’ she directed, not even nodding Marius in. He hurriedly joined his twin and held his wand in the air.

Cassiopeia raised her wand and green sparks shot out of it. She saw, from the corner of her eye, the same happening to Marius’. She smiled. She felt complete again.

‘Miss Cassiopeia, produce a Shield Charm.’

_‘Protego.’_ She murmured, almost lazily. With Marius back by her side she felt more powerful, and the magic flowed more easily.

Madame Marchbanks noted this down. She turned to Marius. ‘Do the same.’

Cassiopeia felt magic bubble up within her as Marius attempted the Charm. Suddenly, like an explosion, her Shield Charm popped and collapsed and Marius’ appeared. Madame Marchbanks looked up sharply, something indescribable in her eyes.

‘Miss Cassiopeia, give me your wand.’

Cassiopeia hesitated, noticed the look on the Professor’s face, and handed her wand over.

‘Master Marius, produce red sparks.’

Pale, Marius raised his wand, a strangely uncomfortable look of concentration on his face. Cassiopeia looked down at her own wand suddenly. The very tip had begun to glow red, very, very slightly, like the glow of a candle that has been snuffed out. With a thumping heart, she knew that she had never noticed that.

The red sparks began to pour out of Marius’ wand.

Madame Marchbanks pointed her wand at Cassiopeia’s and murmured: _‘Protego.’_

Cassiopeia’s wand, trapped within Madame Marchbanks’ shield, began to flick and twist, as if trying to free itself, the red glow amplifying. The colour of her cheeks told Cassiopeia that it was taking all of the Professor’s energy to hold the shield.

The red sparks of Marius’ wand died.

Cassiopeia began to understand why Madame Marchbanks had come to test them.

Three hours later, Cygnus Black returned to his desk, on which lay a single letter. It had Griselda Marchbanks’ distinctive handwriting and was labelled _Urgent._

The note within was brief and heart-stopping.

_Mr C A Black,_

_Your son, Marius Caelus, is a Squib. See that he and his sister are separated without further ado, if you do not wish to place your family, your honour and possibly your daughter in grave danger._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Professor Griselda Marchbanks, CDMG, APMO, fdBB_

Cygnus closed his eyes in despair. More than sixty miles away, Griselda Marchbanks began to consider a career change.

_**[Review, please! Also, if the whole wand-thing was confusing, please tell me. I tried to keep it ambiguous without not revealing anything but, y'know, it's hard to tell. Anyway, 'till next time! Angel.]** _   



	9. Plum

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.** _ **_]_ **

Cassiopeia Helene at seventeen years old looked remarkably like Cassiopeia Helene at eleven years. She had the same blank, arrogant mask that she had learned so well from her childhood. Her eyes were still blue, her hair still cream. But more than that, her lips were still pointed, her skin still ice-smooth. 

Some things had changed, however. The frail, hard-boned waif of a girl had morphed into someone far more substantial: still slim and long, but with more than a whisper of femininity. She had grown yet more regal and now, as she deftly Charmed her gown to button itself around her, she moved fluidly with no discernable effort. And yet there was something softer about her, almost a glow, but always a cold light. Even now she’d darken a room.

The door opened, and Cassiopeia looked up at the familiar man entering. He smiled at her and she smiled back.

Marius Caelus, too, had grown: the past six years etched into dark shadows on his face. His charcoal hair was longer now, hanging slightly about his face, and he was broader. He appeared as an opposite: although he had filled out and left skinny boyhood behind, his cheeks were more gaunt, his face hollow. His grey eyes were the last vestiges of his childhood, each still curtained with long, black lashes and the skin around them crinkled into a grin that sat comfortably on his face.

Cassiopeia’s wand slipped as she watched her brother, and the back of her dress fell open again. Wordlessly, he walked behind her and buttoned it by hand.

‘Thank you.’ She murmured: nothing added, nothing taken away.

He said nothing, but she felt a heavy, opal necklace surround her throat suddenly. ‘You left this downstairs’, he whispered into her ear as he clasped it on the nape of her neck. She had goose bumps, she realised suddenly. She could feel his fingers shaking, almost imperceptible, but to one who, like she, was so deeply concentrated on his every movement.

A quick, sharp knock, and the door swung open, Marius stepped back quickly and Cassiopeia shook her hair.

Dorea Antlia was the most changed. A comely maiden of twelve, she resembled her brother in manner, and her father in look. She wore a cap of dark curls and her cheeks, still pale, still Black, had a glow of health. When she spoke her lips were cherry-red and her tongue pink.

Dorea coughed softly and then looked at her siblings with an almost unnoticeable quirk in her lip. ‘Mother asked me to tell you that she’s changed her mind. She thinks the violet gown would be better.’ Cassiopeia nodded softly and her sister left, eyes rolling theatrically.

She turned around, standing close to him and for a split-second they were still, stood by one another. The stillness sent chills up and down her spine and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He wasn’t breathing, he noticed suddenly, and tore his gaze from her face. He walked over to the window and looked out intently, focussing his mind of the whisper of the wind in the trees. He saw a tall, dark figure walking slowly up the path, as lost in thought as he himself was. From here he had a good view of the gentleman. He observed dark hair which, even cut as short at it was, lay ruffled and windswept. He observed bright brown eyes. He observed an easy gait and a long, lean comfort in the man’s own skin. He observed contentment. A surge of hot, vitriolic hate bubbled up inside him. He quashed it. 

He turned back round to see her, now dressed in the plum-coloured garment, pinning her hair back. He noticed, with some distain, that her face had coloured. She wore rouge on her cheeks and something blue and slightly shimmering on her eyelids. Her lips were painted scarlet. He moved to stand in front of her and softly placed his hand over her cheek.

‘What’s the…paint for?’ he murmured softly.

Her already flushed cheeks turned mauve as she blushed deeply. ‘Good impression, you know.’

He took his hand away and gave her a harsh look. ‘You shouldn’t wear that. You don’t need it.’

A thousand whispered words hung between them. Slowly she walked to the mirror and Charmed the make up from her face. Her white cheeks, pronounced blue eyes, her pointed lips, he allowed his eyes to linger on them, and they pressed into his mind for a moment after she turned toward the door.

‘Sister.’ He said, suddenly, like the breaking of glass in an empty room. She turned back to look at him, blank mask on a pale face.

A thousand whispered words hung between them.

A thousand questions.

A moment. A gaze. A shared eye line, like a string tied between he and she. He felt the string tightening: tauter and tauter, a fibre here and there breaking, snapping, ending.

A whisper. _‘Sister_ _._ ’

She nodded slightly, and gave him a look of appraisal. She knew, knew so well, that today marked a finality, an end.

With a coldness she did not recognise, he left the room, and as he tore his gaze from hers, the string snapped.

Trying to ignore the bitter pains in her chest, Cassiopeia looked back to mirror. With no Marius behind her, no tall dark shadow, she felt herself shrink. She pushed back her shoulders and softly touched her hair. Feet silent on velvet carpets, she softly trod downstairs.

Kaula, whose eyes were watering slightly, choked out that ‘Master and Mistress are in the drawing room, Miss Cassiopeia.’ With a pounding heart and shaking legs, she turned the handle on the door, and entered.

As she opened the door, three dark heads turned toward her. She flushed, feeling ridiculously naked as they watched her, and became suddenly away of her hair: the palest in the room. She looked steadfastly at her parents. ‘Good afternoon Mother, Father.’

Her mother gave her a rare smile, her father rose. As he did, the other man, sitting opposite Cassiopeia’s parents, stood. Cygnus looked between them twice, before indicating one after the other with his elegant hand. ‘Cassiopeia, this is Mr Charlus Potter. Mr Potter, my daughter Cassiopeia.’

Charlus took her hand and brought it to his lips. ‘Good to meet you at last, Mr Potter,’ she began.

‘The pleasure,’ Charlus cut in as he lowered her hand, ‘is all mine.’

She arched an eyebrow, hoping that he expression would clearly state exactly what she thought of his old, overused line. He looked back, impassive but for a glint on his eyes. Her father indicated the seat by Mr Potter, and she took it, deftly catching the goblet of wine that her mother Levitated over towards her.

There was a moment of silence. Cassiopeia sipped the rich red wine, her thoughts inevitably fading back to Marius upstairs.

‘How are your family?’ Violetta looked politely inquiring.

Charlus Potter looked down for a moment, as if truly thinking through his answer. Cassiopeia wondered why he bothered. Her mother was clearly merely being polite. The correct answer, she found herself thinking, was what Marius said every time he was asked of the family, a batting aside of the question, a gentle _I believe they are very well, and yours?_ A continuation of good manners.

‘They are well. My sister-in-law is expecting, you know.’ What a transparent man, Cassiopeia found herself thinking. His distaste for his sister-in-law was ridiculously apparent, painted onto his face like the make-up that Marius, upstairs, alone, had told her to remove.

Cassiopeia vaguely remembered the wedding of Charlus’ brother Victris, two years previous. She had not attended, having feigned illness. Marius had been strangely quiet the next day, merely commenting that the bride’s sister had danced with Pollux, she recalled.

She swallowed her wine slowly. ‘So your sister-in-law was…Miss Ariel Macmillan?’

His lip curled (more transparency, no subtlety) as he nodded.

‘Send her my congratulations,’ she replied, and noticed a quirk in his lip. It reminded her of Dorea.

Her mother opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. ‘Yes?’ her father barked.

The door swung open to reveal the elf. ‘Begging your pardon Madams, Sirs, Kaula was just wanting to let you know that dinner is served.’

‘Very good, Kaula. We shall be through directly.’ Cassiopeia looked around silently, before allowing herself to be led by Charlus’ strong arm: stronger, she noticed with a start than Marius’.

Dinner was a vaguely silent affair, punctuated by the kind of conversation that Cassiopeia and Marius had laughed at as children. Now, as she too murmured praise of the creamy soup and the piquant casserole, she found herself vaguely surprised. Somewhere along the line she’d left something behind, and a dull sense of loss slowly overtook her.

‘Cassiopeia? Cassiopeia?’ She dimly sensed that she was being asked a question. She looked up slowly, to see both of her parents and Mr Potter looking at her with concerned faces. She flushed.

‘I’m sorry. I was far away.’ She attempted a tinkling social laugh, but found it stifling. She reached to sip from her goblet, her cheeks redder still.

Charlus Potter placed a hand daringly on her sleeve. She glanced down at it, feeling her cheeks burn even more, if possible, before looking back up at him. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had touched her, uninvited. Apart from Marius, of course.

‘Miss Cassiopeia, you seem unfortunately flushed.’ She looked back, dagger eyes in a blank Black mask. ‘Perhaps you would be more comfortable sitting on the terrace?’

She looked at him, suddenly unreadable eyes. She took another sip of wine to slow herself. ‘That would be quite relaxing. Thank you for the suggestion. Mother, Father, could I take two moments?’ She glanced between her parents, catching her mother’s eye and avoiding her father’s.

Her mother nodded graciously. ‘Of course you may.’ There was an almost feral smile on her face as she continued, inclining her head towards Charlus. ‘Mr Potter, why don’t you accompany our daughter? It would be a tragedy indeed if she were to faint and there be no one there with her. Mr Black and I can watch from the French windows.’

Charlus Potter agreed readily and offered her his arm. Taking her goblet of wine, she unwillingly made her way out into the shaded courtyard. At least, she thought petulantly, the cool breeze was calming her perpetual blush.

They settled themselves at an ornate wrought iron table, into the top of which was branded the Black family coat-of-arms. She traced it with a finger, looking out to the opulent garden and avoiding Mr Potter’s eye.

‘Miss Cassiopeia,’ she heard Charlus Potter begin. She looked up at him. The arrogant flame in his eyes had died now that they were alone, and he was biting his lip slightly. He looked at her with an open expression, his face unguarded. He wore no mask.

‘Mr Potter?’ She attempted not to sound nervous.

He opened his mouth, before closing it again, and sighing. ‘You’re far more beautiful than the portrait I saw.’

She remembered the portraits, and, predictably, her mind flickered to Marius, the Marius in the portrait and the Marius whose cold eyes she’d left, so unwillingly, upstairs.

‘Thank you.’ She remained calm and impassive, pale-cheeked and unwavering.

He sighed again, and pushed his dark hair back from his face, simultaneously stretching his legs out in front of him and extending his neck. Her mind still on her twin, Cassiopeia found herself comparing. On the surface, the two men were quite similar: dark hair, thick and messy, tall, long-limbed. But there were a thousand differences. Charlus’ eyes were plain brown, touched with green, and they hadn’t the warmth, the softness, the twisting depths of her twin’s. Charlus sat broader, smiled wider and talked louder. He fit perfectly into the person he had been born, his soul sat neatly within his skin. Marius was awkward, uncomfortable, almost misplaced.

Marius was _hers,_ in a way that she was unsure that she could ever let Charlus be.

She took a sip of wine, more as a distraction than to quench her thirst. Her mouth had suddenly gone unnaturally dry.

‘I hope…’ Charlus Potter was looking out into the gardens, his face almost glowing with some dark light and his expression determination. ‘I hope we can be happy.’

‘As do I, Mr Potter.’ Cassiopeia glanced at him.

‘Charlus.’

Her face softened and, for the first time, she truly looked at him. ‘Charlus, then.’

He turned to look back at her, and a lock of thick, dark hair tumbled like falling stars into his eyes. As he pushed it away, she saw a screaming whisper of a man she knew too well. 


	10. Orange

**_[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality. The fluff in this chapter is owned by Sara (insanguinare), who I love.]_ **

The chafing sand dug almost-grooves into his feet; he felt the roughness of the wet grains against the soft smoothness of the dry. The sea lapped against his feet, the sunset was almost Caribbean. It was idyllic, this stretch of abandoned beach by her parents’ home. The calm and stillness was contrasted by the creature of energy beside him. He couldn’t quite believe it; that even six years later, she still walked with him and still talked with him and still met with him.

Words were bubbling out of her mouth, smiling words that meant nothing at all. But it was _magic_ and she was _magic_ and if he closed his eyes and wished and dreamed then maybe some day she might _love him._

But when he thought the word _love_ in his head he whispered it. Because that made it more real.

He thought that he was going to ask her to marry him soon.

He’d ask her right here, he’d decided. Here on the beach, on the boulders, with the sun slanting on her slim shoulders and the stars in her eyes. He’d wait till dusk, until the orange-peel sunset slipped down the horizon and he could pinpoint the dazzling point where sea met sky and watch dawn on her face.

And she’d smile coyly, and blush like she did now as he gently teased her and she’d say _yes_ , because she’d know how much he loved her.

Melania took his hand and stroked along his palm, caressing lines and writing words he knew she wished to say. Her eyes betrayed her to him, that mixture of natural detachment and an even more natural warmth. He could read her like a book; he saw everything she thought. His beautiful girl with the sun in her hair and her heart on her sleeve.

Melania smiled to herself, because she knew what he was thinking.

She took a magical ribbon from her pocket and set it upon her hair, where it tied it tidily away for her. She smiled to know his ardour, to see his eyes caressing her frame, to feel his hand in hers grow warm. She remembered her mother’s face, half-lit by candlelight, half-lit by her own rapture, telling her fairy tales of women who could slay men at the click of their fingers. Women who had men eating from the palms of their hand. Women who could scorn and spurn, women who broke hearts.

Real women, with white hands and red blood.

Melania McMillan had always been romantic. She craved a string of lovers and a mysterious air. She wanted to swoon, caught between men who loved and hated her. She sought to be in young men’s dreams at night; she wanted them to lie awake thinking of her. She desired for them to compete for her hand. She wanted to make men bleed; she wanted to push them to the very edge and over, over, over, for _her_.

She’d always dreamt of heartbreak, of being torn between two men. When she was a child, she’d play with the enchanted dolls her sister passed down to her, placing the beautiful Lissy May doll between the dark, handsome figure of the Gregory Thomas and the blonde good looks of the Desmond doll. She’d dress Lissy May in a wedding dress and never knew which groom to give her.

As she aged she found nature agreeing with her plans, blessing her with chestnut hair and great brown eyes, endowing her with a shapely figure and a tantalisingly wide, curved smile. A smile that she bestowed on any man she chose to slay. A smile she’d greatly enjoyed cursing Pollux Black with.

_Greatly enjoyed,_ she had to remind herself, sometimes daily. Snaring innocent men had its downsides. A terrible reputation, for one thing. Unpopularity among her own sex. But more, a wracking, wrecking feeling of guilt whenever she awoke to one of the faces – to an admirer, or his brother, or his cousin, or his friend, or his rival. But she squashed them, for real woman break hearts like they dance: smoothly, swiftly, and with the sheerest enjoyment in the act.

She looked over to him and he smiled, and she smiled back, a recipe of glowing cheeks and crinkled eyes and open features. Ingredients of seduction. Exactly what it says on the tin.

So she smiled like _that_ , and tossed her hair, and trailed an elegant foot in the sea. Waiting, wondering, when she’d get caught out.

She’d always thought that Pollux Black would be the one to catch her out. With his intelligence, his family, his authority and strength of character, she’d always believed he’d see through her. She’d always been convinced that he’d break her, that he’d be the one to scorn her, to out her, to allow her cantankerous spirit to be known. She’d always thought he’d be the one to brand her a slut, a whore, a scarlet woman.

The thought of that rejection, and Melania McMillan had fallen in love.

The adoring, worshipping smile on his face now, and she’d fallen back out.

He’d never kept up with her wishes; he’d never fit the fantasy. He was just like the rest of them. Just like a man. Only ever a man.

After all, she’d always been romantic.

And this was romance: the sunset, the beach, the soft caresses and meaningless words. This was quixotic, this was traditionally beautiful: this was everything a young lady was supposed to dream of.

Melania had always been worried about her dreams: her fantasies of men who’d scorn her, whose idea of romance was seedy and sleazy. Men who’d touch her like she couldn’t break, who’d toss her and turn her. Men who’d dig their nails into her back. She fancied that Pollux thought her skin too pale, too brittle, for such possessive treatment. They were the gentlemen, the not-so-gentlemen that she could fall in love with. The man that Pollux Black had never been.

And this was romance.

Pollux reached up to caress her pale cheek: skin smooth and thin, like a butterfly’s wing. The sunset raced through her hair, lit fires in her eyes and set a glow to her lips. Slowly, as if disconnected from himself, he curved his hand around her face and leaned in, pressing their lips together.

His heart stopped. Her heart beat faster.

This was romance. She wished him to be another and he wished for her to feel the same way. But this was romance.

He was sure. It had to be.

**_[Read and review? Maybe? And please be generous: I find this kind of flawed character really tricky to write. Constructive criticism makes my heart sing like a bird.]_**


	11. Cerulean

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]** _

_The scent of Last Laugh is heavy on the air as the shadows ebb and flow. You squint, trying to make out shapes in the darkness, trying to find whatever it is you search for, trying to reach ecstasy. It feels as if spiders’ webs surround you; soft, almost lifeless strings caress your face, a thousand breaths holding you back._

_And then, out of the shadows, comes a fury, a fury, a fury of colour and motion._

_She moves like a myriad of photographs are being paraded in front of your eyes, like stop-motion cameras and dancing beads of dust and light. She dances through the shadows like too much sky and fresh air, she dances between the light and darkness, lightly darkless. As she dances her dress flickers colour, like a kaleidoscope showing every shade of the spectrum: midnight, white, cream, cobalt, scarlet, plum, silver, gold, crimson, a whisper of every morning, every evening, every sunrise and sunset._

_Behind you is the sound of a door opening, a body slipping in and the catch being replaced. He wears dress robes, black and white, not a hair out of place or a misplaced crease. And suddenly he is not behind you, but before you, he is dancing with her, he is spinning her around the room, he is taming the fury and even as you watch there is a trail of blood coming from her, dripping, draining, each droplet a different shade of cerulean, of violet, of butter-lemon, of charcoal, every tint and hue in rivulets on the floor as she fades to black and white – the colour, the life, the love drained from her._

_She falls to the floor – dead?_

_No, not dead, merely sleeping, and you crouch over her, stroke her cheek and it feels like golden thread woven into navy tapestry. And suddenly you’re falling, falling, falling into the tapestry and you can run along each thread, tread delicately on unbreakable bonds. You circumnavigate the whole family, the history and the world and the celebrations and tragedies and each one of the traditions and you sit, legs dangling loosely over the edge, between two names that fit too well, fit just too well._

_The perfume still scents the air, the aroma making you light-headed and dizzy._

_Now you feel the thread you’re resting upon suddenly snap and you fall, tripping and collapsing, hardly alive at all as you feel yourself strike the ground at a thousand different possibilities. You are carried away by the momentum of yourself, and all you can feel is movement and the pulling, tugging sensation as fate and destiny war over which direction to take you in. And you are on your feet, running towards wherever feels right, down long black tunnels and there are white lights dancing around your feet and zooming past you and you aren’t sure if there’s anywhere to go but onwards to nowhere._

_And now you’re in her bedroom._

_And you watch her sleep, watch as her bosom rises and falls with her gentle breathing. You see the soft, silken spill of her hair upon her pillow. Her hands, delicate and graceful on the pure white sheets, are pale and slim, flawless and smooth, positively a nun’s hands. You watch her as she sleeps, your breathing falling into sync with hers, feeling that your very hearts are pumping as one, as two, as a thousand._

_She sighs in her sleep; you wonder what she dreams of. You imagine she dreams of starlight and flickering shadows, of crimson frocks and nights unwound, unbound._

_You imagine she dreams of times of freedom, of the kind of happiness that pumps in your blood and tastes sweet on your tongue and sits like a golden flame in your eyes. And you feel the pump of blood, taste sweet lemon kisses, feel dancing sparks in your vision._

_You fear she dreams of the dancer, of the man, of the sharp angles and smooth dressing._

_You hope she dreams of you._

_And your eyelids begin to fall as you watch her, and you are asleep._

_You are asleep and the light behind your eyelids is prickling, intrusive, invasive, bright – so bright, too bright, can’t sleep, won’t sleep, won’t dream, bright sunshine on your face, on your eyelids, on the world._

_You open your eyes and you are lying on a rock, legs and arms splayed at angles, the beating sun burning your thin white limbs and your thick dark thatch is growing heavy with the heat. You make to move, to find shade or shelter, but discover yourself to be chained to the rock. As you writhe and flail against the chains, the boundaries, the heat begins to soften. As you kick your way free, the sun ducks behind the clouds and the temperature is pleasant._

_You see her, suddenly. She wears a white dress, long, with black lace. The soles of her feet are blackened too, blackened by the climb up the mountain. She is running, dancing, fleeing, the rhythmic pound of her feet on the ground matching up to the rhythm of your pulse, of your heart. As she flies past you, spinning, dancing, running, you give chase. Breathing heavily, feeling the soft grass and the smooth rock underfoot, you run after her. The race, the chase, the game._

_Your wrists and ankles still throb, as if the kiss of the chains will never quite rub off them. Somewhere, you are sure, you can feel, there is disapproval, there is nature, there is law._

_There is nature, and you revel in it as she does, stroking the trees teasingly as she passes each one, lifting rocks from their resting places and reawakening the sleeping canyon as she hurls them into the gorge. For her there is no chase or race or game. For her there is merely the mountain, the warm grass underfoot and the view from the top. She runs like the wind bats her in each direction, as if she is controlled by instinct alone. There are powers within her that may not be meddled with._

_You chase her to the top of the mountain, her white dress a constant spectre before you. You lean out your arms, reaching for her (ecstasy?). But she is always out of reach, like the horizon, the closer you get the further she flies._

_Fly…_

_Fly…_

_Fly…_

_Dance…_

_You reach, you catch, you can feel the ends of her hair slip through your fingers and she is gone, gone, gone, over the edge, into the darkness, into the dance, falling into the dance._

Marius woke up in a cold sweat. 

Looking out of the window, there was a full moon. Somehow, somewhere in his mind, he thought of the history books his father had once taught him. Of the curse.

Inevitably, he thought of Cassiopeia. 

Breathing heavily, he reached for the glass of water by his bed. Shaking, he sipped, replaced the glass and turned over back to bed.

It took a full ten minutes before his breathing went back to normal. The next morning, dark shadows and sunken cheeks, he felt he had not slept at all. 


	12. Apple-green

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]** _

Fearful people are often creatures of routine.

Cedrella Black was a fearful person.

She was the second daughter, the middle of three, and the despised one too. She was neither pretty nor charming, and seemed destined to remain a burden on her family her whole life. She wasn’t Callidora, of the bright eyes and wide smile, nor Charis of the inheritance and the sharp wit. All she possessed was a head filled with thoughts she shouldn’t think and dreams she shouldn’t dream and wishes she should never, ever have wished. But no one would ever know about those. Because no one ever asked.

She stroked the piano softly and bit her lip.

_Sometimes,_ her younger sister had told her, eyes directed over Cedrella’s shoulder, _you’ve got to live for the moment._

She sat at the piano for a long minute, head spinning and heart beating. She placed her fingers on the keys and began to play.

The melody was elegant and the tempo gentle. The soft chords gave the piece light and shade and shaped the musical manifestation of contentment.

_No, that would never do,_ she decided, as she tautened her hands and sped her fingers, sending them dancing, flitting, flying across the keyboard to spell out songs of anger and frustration and bitterness. The notes grew louder and the pitch grew lower and the clash of fourth and fifth grew colder and she threw all her emotion into a piece of music she heard only in her head.

And this time the music manifested itself in her repression.

She closed her eyes, allowing the angry notes to seep into her mind and boil her blood deep red. And _red_ was pounding behind her eyelids, red, dark, angry, blood red, pounding behind her eyelids, angry in her mind, in her head…

No, no, it wasn’t dark, rich ruby red at all.

It was a far softer red, slightly yellow, slightly orange, the colour of pumpkins and sunset and terracotta. That was the colour she saw behind her eyelids. 

It was a Thursday. She would not be missed.

Closing her eyes again, she felt the kiss of the terracotta red in her head and decided that, just this once, she could break the routine.

It only took twenty minutes, with her heart like the flapping wings of a bird trying to escape in her chest, looking over her shoulder as she redressed into her red almost-Muggle dress and savouring the flickers of fear every time she heard footsteps in the house. Her own breath tasted like the over-sweet Muggle penny-sweets that she would buy with the Muggle money that she would hide, and then carry them home, feeling them burning a hole in her pocket, and then silently consume in her bedroom, removing the crackling cellophane from the lurid shades of plum-violet and apple-green and berry-red with shaking fingers, tense, listening for heavy treading footsteps on the steps, and that ecstasy as she felt the thick sweetness filling her mouth. The cheap, sticky syrup flavour of Muggle sweets was nothing to the taste of getting one over on her family. 

She flitted down the path from the house, feeling weightless as a ghost as she slipped away without being noticed.

Fearful people are often creatures of routine. 

He was a creature of routine.

He was just where he always was, on the green, between the cluster of saplings and the great, strong oak. He was always there at this time, she’d learnt in the interweaving of their routines, eating doorstep slices of bread and sausage absently as he fiddled with the grass. Then he’d lie back, half-close his eyes and watch the clouds. One hand would flick and twist surreptitiously at his side as his fingers itched to trace them. She could see through him like a window, there was nothing hidden, nothing secret, nothing he wouldn’t share. He was like a book, his thoughts and fears, and all she wanted was to absorb every word.

She’d never felt this way before, and it terrified her, and fearful people are creatures of routine and so now she turned her bedclothes back to a perfect right angle and tied her left shoe first and never, ever entered a room without touching the handle twice.

And yet, hilariously, ironically, he was the only person she’d ever break her routine for. She’d break hers to collide with his.

But he was so hard to resist, with that terracotta, almost flame-red hair and those dark eyes that scanned the sky as if they could see what no others could. Mesmerising, she found. She called it _magic_. The middle daughter, not pretty Callidora or witty Charis, she was lost until she could watch his eyes.

Even though he was just a boy. Just a Muggle boy whose hair shone behind her eyes and kept her up nights. But even boys who are only just boys and hardly men, with their long limbs and their long noses, and their achingly beautiful eyes and their hair that she fantasized about stroking as she woke and slept and played the piano, even those boys can turn the hearts of women.

(And this was romance.)

She was being ridiculous and female and she was _better than this,_ she knew.

And yet it was just so _magical._

There was more magic out here on the green, where they were two people in a thousand and no one _could_ ever know, _would_ ever know what she thought, far more magic, than in the high ceilings and crystal chandeliers of her uncle’s house, where she was just Cedrella, she was just the mouse, just the one who wasn’t ever _quite_ good enough at anything apart from playing the dirty, filthy Muggle piano.

As she watched his pale cheeks crease, she’d never seen anything more clean or pure.

She found herself transfixed – the Muggle had cast a spell over her and it wasn’t the kind with a counter-curse. She didn’t know what his name was, or how he took his tea, or why his eyes were so addictive to observe; all she knew was that he was dancing through her mind morning, noon and night and that she never wanted him to leave. 

She had to get back. They’d expect her to be practising the piano.

After all— 

Fearful people are always creatures of routine.

Even if they don’t always notice who’s watching them through the window.

Smiling slightly, Cassiopeia admired the smile of pure joy on the face of her cousin, as she returned pink-cheeked and glowing, from the Muggle village. With a flash of blue light, she set the piano to play an aria to swell the bosom of any lovelorn maid and Conjured a tiny, crimson paper heart. As she left the room, she silently slipped it under the lid of the piano. 


	13. Indigo

**_[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]_ **

Cassiopeia watched them ride on winged horseback down past the lake to the forest and said a silent prayer for her brothers, her father and her betrothed. Thestral hunting was a dangerous sport at the best of times: when everyone is aiming for the invisible any movement becomes a target.

She looked at her hand as it unconsciously flicked and twisted in the drapes, separate, or so it seemed, from the rest of her body. When she had been younger she had been drawn to stillness, grace, and an airy lightness of movement. Now she was tenser, felt heavier in her tread and in her breath. She glanced back at her hand and wondered what had brought upon her this penchant to fiddle. This urge to move and never to be still, always searching for what was around the corner, hoping not for a future, but for an escape from the present.

_Perhaps to the past, to the freedom, to Marius..._   


She pushed him angrily from her mind. He had no place there anymore – she was moving away from him into the arms of another and he had no right to trample through her thoughts, upsetting her in the mornings. She washed her hands with uncharacteristic briskness and sat at her desk.

He hadn’t come to see her that morning. She had grown accustomed to his face separating the darkness as she woke, his neck curved as he stroked her cheek to wake her and they’d whisper like children in the minutes between dawn and morning where nothing was complicated.

But this morning there had been no twin on the end of her bed, no secrets and whispers, no opinions and laughter and shared problems. She wanted to tell him about her dream where she saw him in the music her cousin played on the piano. She wanted to tell him about the heart she’d left for Cedrella. She wanted to tell him how Kaula had scorched Mother’s sheets with the iron and had then shut her head in the oven door so many times that she forgot to mend them. She wanted him _here_ , she wanted him _here_ _now._

She missed him, from one day to the next, like her heart might spontaneously combust with need. And she’d never truly noticed before.

He was her _twin_ , she’d spent seventeen years but for twelve untouchable minutes in his company. She’d wept into his coat and fallen asleep on his shoulder and clung onto his hand and breathed the same breath as him a thousand times, a thousand days, a thousand years, a thousand ways. 

And she’d always felt comfortable in his presence – more than comfortable – safe. He was so completely her and she so completely him that she felt incomplete without him. And when he touched her it was like her own hand and when he spoke to her it was like the other side of her mind.

She was only half a person without him.

She looked out to the hills and forests behind her home and she could almost feel her brother and her destined out there, battling a common enemy together. Charlus Potter was taking half of them and leaving the other half to flounder and fall. Potter was going to leave Marius for dead.

An unwelcome image of Marius dead on the floor, pale and still, swirled into her mind, and she retched. Mortality was a force to be reckoned with.

She shook her head and tried to stop thinking. Dipping a quill in indigo ink she wrote, in the swirling script she’d adapted from Marius’ elegant hand as a child, a tentative _Mrs Cassiopeia Potter_.

_Mrs Potter. Mrs C. Potter. Cassiopeia Potter. Mrs Charlus Potter. Cassiopeia and Charlus._

_Cassiopeia. Charlus._

_Cassiopeia._

_Cassiopeia._

_Marius._

_Cassiopeia and Marius._

_Charlus._

_Marius._

_Marius, oh Marius, oh Marius._

She felt sick with herself, so pathetic, so female, so desperate. And yet the desperation, the need, the craving, the very want within her burnt like fire, like the scorch marks on the tapestry and it was all she could do not to die right here, right now.

She wondered if her family could know her thoughts, could know her feelings. She wondered if she’d be burnt from the tapestry simply for feeling such evil things. She wondered if it was wrong to do this to oneself, to lock oneself in this gaol, this glorious, terrible limbo between purity and everything but.

She was to be given to Charlus Potter as a pure, sacred Black woman. But she knew better. Her mind, her wants and needs and wishes were anything but pure. What she saw behind her eyes and in the broken moments between night and day, sleeping and waking, they were not pure. There was one person whose fingers had run along her skin for seventeen years. There was one person for whom she longed in a way that could not be defined as pure.

There was no childishness left in the way she pictured her brother in her mind’s eye. There was nothing innocent left in the burn of his fingers on her skin. There was an innuendo in every look he gave her and each smile was inappropriate.

She thought only of him, of his touch and his lips and his hands and even, sometimes, his skin where it disappeared under his collar and his sleeves.

She burned for him, breathed for him, lived and died for him.

She disgusted herself. But we cannot control what we dream of. He would slip into her mind at night, where she was most powerless to stop him and ravish her, ravage her, shame her, dishonour her and burn with her.

_Pure Black woman; burn, bend, break._

She could feel his fingers fasten the opals around her throat, could feel the elegant pads pressing into her neck, remembered how her pulse had raced under the mere touch of his hand.

She remembered the look, the whisper, the soft velvet of that word, his _‘sister’_ murmured like a mantra, like a creed, dogmatic and fixed, dripping from his tongue. And she remembered the cold, unfeeling look in his eyes as he left the room. That detached, blank mask; so pale, so _Black_. There was no twin, in that mask, no Marius. No Marius who slipped into her bedroom and night and told her whispered stories of the skies, and the stars, and the constellations. No Marius who snuck her up to the Observatory and showed her the other Cassiopeia, with the glinting stars in the shape of an ‘m’, an ‘m’ for ‘Marius’ and ‘madness’ and ‘magic’.

When they were young they used to climb trees and play at being savages, at being Muggles, back when they were young and things were simple. Whenever she climbed too high he’d turn his head up to her and smile his comforting smile, like she was the damsel in distress and he was her knight in shining armour. ‘Do you need rescuing?’ he’d ask, equal amounts of concern and amusement decorating his voice.

_Yes, yes, rescue me. Rescue me. I need to be rescued._

_Save me._


	14. Violet

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality. This chapter is rated hard R for explicit inappropriate sexuality. Happy Valentine’s Day.]** _

Marius couldn’t sleep that night.

The yellow-grey clouds were striped with purple, and the yellow was so-slowly beginning to turn more orange. It was too dull a night to see the stars, but for a gash in the sash of sky where he could, on the parchment of the night, see the bright, glittering ‘m’ of Cassiopeia.

And that was always it, wasn’t it, these days. In a crowded room, in a bustling street, in a dense forest hers was the first face he found. Like they were the only two people in the world; to him she shone like she was technicolour in a monochrome world.

He could see her in the sky tonight; see the gold of her hair as it caught the light in the yellowish underside of the clouds. He could see the bright, clear blue of her eyes where the navy sky met the greyish cloud. He could see the blush of her cheeks in the orange-red of the oncoming dawn. He could see, in the violet painted on the cloud, the satin of her gown as it rose from the floor and encircled her waist, before clinging to her ribcage and stroked across her bosom, so soft, he could feel it under his fingers, feel the skin of her chest as he would run his nervous fingers all over it, the smoothness like candle wax, or mirrors, or stars in the sky, and she would tremble, quivering at his very touch…

He grimaced and shook his head like a wet dog, attempting to evict such terrible, despicable thoughts.

Marius lay back in his bed, attempting to grasp a few moments of sleep. But he couldn’t, he tossed, he turned, and every time he closed his eyes Cassiopeia lurked behind them, swirling and dancing, his hand firm around her waist, and if he left them closed for too long he would see his hand rise from her waist and caress her skin, her dress would begin to fall away…

She tormented him, daily and nightly, and there was nothing he could do.

Nothing at all he could do. She was to be taken from him, ripped from his heart by cheerful hazel eyes and a mass of uncouthly messy black hair.

Yet, try as he might, he could not bring himself to hate Charlus Potter. There was something very open about him: he spoke his mind and laughed when he thought things amusing and didn’t worry about the abstract. _He_ was not tormented by kisses too cold to mention, or skin too smooth, or hair that he wanted to run his fingers through. Potter was not tormented, either, by dreams that woke him sweating and panting, by fantasies that left him hot, his nightshirt soaked and shameful. Potter was not tormented, never tormented, because Potter would _have her_ someday.

And that was a worse thought indeed, her smooth limbs covered by his tanned arms, her soft lips and his pale ones pressed together, her eyes fluttering shut.

No one should make her feel that way but him. No one had the _right_. None of them _knew her_ like he did, _needed her_ like he did, _wanted her_ like he did.

As dawn approached, he fell into a fitful slumber and awake, unrested and blinded by the early summer light, with his dishonourable thoughts spilling over.

And so the days passed.

Charlus Potter stayed at the manor for three weeks, hunting with their father and smiling achingly at his sister, charming their mother and discussing politics with Pollux. The whole family seemed absolutely besotted with him.

Only with his younger sister could he vent his frustrations, behind bookshelves in the library, or at the end of the garden by the lake. His baby sister, five years his junior, so often lost beneath the shadow of his twin. But now, having finally found some common ground, he began to open her up, to read the books of her thoughts. And what he found shocked him. A whole world of opinions and emotions, of lofty considerations and waspish thoughts: somewhere along the line Dorea had moved from a child to a woman, and he could never pinpoint when it has happened.

‘…the _arrogance_ , strolling about like he owns the place, giving orders to Kaula as if she should obey. He’s not even part of the family yet. How _dare_ he?’

He liked to watch her as she reached her stride, see her pretty young face turn scornful and disdainful. And then, later, as she wound down she’d purse her lips again – _he’s not_ that _bad, and he’s really nice to Peia, and I_ guess _he’s not so bad looking_ _–_ and he could see on her face the warring of childhood and adulthood, of the wish for nothing to change and the hope for the future. She was growing up; he could see it. And laughing with her, sniping with her, sitting with her away from the rest of the family, he’d never felt more like a brother.

And so the summer passed.

And so the summer passed, the days filled with ostentatious meals and expensive gifts, with hunting trips and hours in the library. The nights were filled with torturous dreams of satin under the pads of his fingers, of skin under his lips, of his body freeing itself from the cruel limbo in which it was locked. The nights were sitting in the Observatory, watching the stars, reading the diamond patterns, hoping the dreams would stop, the thoughts would stop, the _feelings_ would _stop_. He wanted to scream, to _burn_ , to burn away his sins into the complex enigma of the night.

And so the autumn came.

And they wouldn’t stop. _(They wouldn’t stop, why wouldn’t they stop? The thoughts, they wouldn’t stop, the feelings, the wishes and wants and desires, skin and flesh and teeth, lips and legs, arms and breasts, cheeks and hair, eyes, starry eyes, clear and blue and penetrating him.)_

They wouldn’t stop.

And now, neither could he.

And now, now, here, in her bedroom, kicking the door shut, her face was flushed, and you could do it, you could take her into your arms.

You could bend your head to hers and touch her lips with yours and nothing mattered anymore; brother meant nothing, sister meant nothing, twin meant nothing, nothing happened, nothing existed, there was nothing left.

There was nothing left in the world but her mouth on yours, nothing left but her hands tangled tightly in her your hair. All you wanted was to keep her there forever, pressed against you, where you could feel her soft skin at the nape of your neck, her fingers on your cheek, you could hold her around the waist, you could move your mouth away just a fraction and feel her lean in for more. You could stroke her tongue with yours and feel any semblance of _sister_ seep away into the sweet satiation of her mouth.

And it felt, for the first time, like home. Here, in the red-hot heat of her mouth, which tasted like raspberry and vanilla, which felt like luxury, the taste and smell of _guilt_ and _wrong_ and _unnatural_ , but more than anything, more than thought or reason, was the overwhelming taste and sense of _yes, oh yes_.

And there was nothing left now, no people or family, nothing Black or white, nothing hot or cold or right or wrong or up or down, the world was not turning anymore because Cassiopeia and Marius Black had found paradise in a kiss and it was going to destroy them.

_(Take a seat, ladies and gentlemen, and stay to watch the show.)_


	15. Slate

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality. Also, I’m sorry that this has taken ages. Please believe me when I say that the story will start to pick up speed in the next few chapters. Read and review, please! Also, the HGA noms are ridiculously flattering. Man, I love you guys.]** _

It was like the divide between earth and hell, this limbo, this cruelty that had befallen him. Ever since he’d pulled his lips gently from hers, seen that look in her eyes, half awe, half terrible fear that he wanted to wipe away like raindrops, ever since then he’d been stuck in this cruel state where he couldn’t be near her and couldn’t keep away.

He could still taste her breath, warm and sweet in his mouth, still feel her eyelashes brush his cheek. The Cassiopeia in his imagination was so soft and warm and _right_ ; the Cassiopeia turning away from him in the hallways so _wrong_ , so _unnatural_. His twin, his own, his other half – so far away from him. 

And yet he could not bring himself to go to her. His body was a war ground, head and heart, mind and matter. His heart begged him to go to her, to touch her, to kiss her again, to forever entwine himself with her. His head…

…his head wouldn’t stop hissing _sister_.

The whisper that had escaped his lips, that cruel sibilance, _sister_ , a word like _murder_ , like _blood_. That word, that sound, that hopelessness: _sister_ seemed to encapsulate everything he could not face. Seemed to encapsulate the fact that, whatever he told himself, however he tried to push it from his mind, ignore it, pretend nothing was real: despite all this the moment that he had taken his twin sister in his arms and kissed her and kissed her until the world had melted away had changed everything and could never be unlived.

The sound of _sister_ served as a crude reminder that it wasn’t _right_ , wasn’t _normal_ to want her. That lips and breath and hands in hair were everything _wrong_ when the blood pumping in his veins and hers was just too similar.

Head and heart, mind and hot, hurtful matter.

Around him the world was turning and turning, fast and furious. The Manor buzzed with activity. Callidora Black had accepted an offer of marriage from Harfang Longbottom and the wedding was to be the society event of the summer. The old reputation of the Blacks joining with the old money of the Longbottoms was a rare opportunity for purebloods around the country to join in envy, and many of them planned to take it up. His parents were rushing around the place looking worried, while Callidora (brought to the house yesterday to preserve her maiden modesty) spent her time grinning and laughing and writing letters to her betrothed. Marius had hardly spoken to her since she had arrived. She’d spent most of her hours with Cassiopeia.

_(Cassiopeia, of the cold eyes with the spark reserved just for him. Cassiopeia, of the soft white cheeks and rich ripe-cherry lips. Cassiopeia, whom he just wanted to take in his arms and kiss her and kiss her…)_

A hearty slap on the back jolted him out of his daydreams.

‘All right, old thing? You were miles off.’ 

Harfang’s broad grin pulled him back to earth. He shook his head for a moment, like a dog with wet ears, and dredged up from somewhere his Black society smile. ‘Yes, yes, I’m quite well. I was just, you know, thinking.’

The taller boy leant forward to lean, as Marius was, on the wrought-iron balcony of his bedroom and watch the sunset.

‘A girl?’ Harfang lit a cigarette and took a drag, glancing at his companion with an appraising look.

Marius reddened. ‘No, no. Not a girl. Nothing like that.’ _Because she wasn’t, she wasn’t, wasn’t just ‘a girl’, she was_ Cassiopeia _, and that made all the difference._

Letting a stream of translucent-slate smoke flutter past his lips, the other boy glanced at him. ‘Because, you know, if it is, you can talk to me.’ He preened. ‘We can’t _all_ be as lucky as yours truly.’ 

A wave of resentment passed over Marius. No, he couldn’t be as lucky as Harfang. He hadn’t had the good fortune to fall for the girl he’d been promised to nineteen years ago. The girl he loved wouldn’t stand, encircled in his arms, wouldn’t offer him her lips and clasp his hand. The girl he loved was his heart and his breath and his other half, and the girl he loved wouldn’t meet his eyes in the hallways of the cold, dark house.

Accidentally-on-purpose knocking the cigarette from Harfang’s hand, and watching it fall to the ground with a glow, Marius could but acquiesce.

Settled with her sister and her cousin on the ground below, he falling cigarette startled Callidora. She peered upwards.

‘—I couldn’t say no, could I? Even to that pale, pinched thing. Not after he’d asked so nicely.’

‘No, indeed, cousin. It was only a dance.’

‘Indeed it was.’ Charis seemed placated by Cassiopeia. ‘Sister?’

Callidora shook herself. ‘Yes?’

‘What’s wrong?’ Charis was a classic older sister, and disapproval shone through her concern.

‘Nothing, nothing. Just…thought I’d seen something fall from the balcony, that’s all.’ Callidora laughed it off. ‘Anyhow, with whom were you dancing?’

But Cassiopeia did not hear her cousin’s description of Albertus Nott. Glancing up, she’d seen the shadow of her brother and Harfang slipping away from the balcony. An ache of want brushed over her heart and she felt, shamefully, childishly, near to tears.

It was like having a hook digging a hole in each of her hands, each pulling her one way or the other: she was being split in two by the pain. Half of her wanted to run to him and pull him, warm and willing, into her arms: hang Harfang or her cousins or anyone else who might object. The other half was avoiding his eye, moving away from his touch, trying to evict his voice in her head whispering words of love and, Merlin forbid, lust.

_(And the lust was taking over her, the desire, the wish to be pressed against his long, slim frame and feel his hands brush her hair from her face and kiss him, just to kiss him…)_

Her cousins, she thought idly, must think her very flighty indeed. She was becoming aware of how much time she had begun to spend looking off into the distance, her mind dancing in circles around Marius, Marius, Marius, the boy she loved and wanted, her brother she cared for, the man with whom she could barely distinguish when he kissed her and when he killed her.

She missed him, she wanted him, she needed him.

This was nothing new, of course. This was how she’d felt about him every day since she was fifteen, or maybe eleven, or maybe forever, she couldn’t tell. 

But it was different now. She could still taste his kiss, feel his arms encircle her, she knew the warmth of his embrace and her body was _begging_ for more. Every avoided glance and awkward word broke her heart and yet she kept on, never facing him, never facing her fears, her feelings, her fascination. Never facing herself.

Because how _could_ she? How could she admit it to herself? Admit that she had broken every rule of men or women, Muggle or wizard, broken the very code of the Black family itself by allowing herself to fall into this dirty, repugnant, unnatural lake of love? She could almost feel the filthy love on her, clinging to her like too many bad spirits. It clawed at her skin and seeped into her blood and turned it brown and sludgy, this dirty, _wrong, so wrong_ love. This obsession, fixation, addiction. This need for him. His lips, eyes, hair, hands, all so close to her – too close, too much blood shared and shed. Twin brothers are not for kissing, for touching or for loving.

So wrong, so bad, so dirty…

…and so, so right.

So right – so much love, yet so much confusion in her addled brain. A thousand children’s fairytales began to play through her mind: _one true love, love is all you need, the fair maiden, the handsome prince, love conquers all._ All the fairytales she could never live.  


Her cousins jolted her out of her reverie, and called her to dinner.

Seeing him across the table: his wide eyes darting to her and away, any resolve she’d ever had fell to pieces.

The clock struck midnight. Cassiopeia gently eased open the door of Marius’ bedchamber. She looked into his eyes.

_‘Save me.’_


	16. Peach

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality. And man, has this chapter been a long time coming. I really do apologise. My exams are coming to a close now, so hopefully you’ll see more TP at a slightly faster rate. Read and review?]** _

****

He clasped her hand, half pulling her up towards the Observatory, half stroking her palm with his calloused fingers. Somewhere inside him joy bubbled like a pot on a stove, the very fact of _permission,_ that he could touch her hand, kiss her cheek, kiss her _mouth_ if no one was about – and there would be no ramifications. He felt so free, so at ease; he felt comfortable in a way he never had before.

‘Come _on_ , come _on!_ ’ He pulled harder and she giggled irresistibly. He loved it, loved that she’d revert to childishness with him, let down the shield that he’d watched her build up over their formative years.

They fell through the trapdoor and closed it cautiously behind them. It would not do to be caught at this time of night.

Cassiopeia dusted off her nightgown and looked up at her twin. He stood by the telescope, painstakingly setting it into position. Something inside her lit up and she didn’t know how she could feel like this, this burning, consuming pride and love and she didn’t know what, how she could feel like this and not just _die_ from it. Frozen where she stood, she watched him, her heart swelling, as he focused his everything into the delicate task. His body curved around the spyglass and his teeth settled on his lip and his brow furrowed and she just wanted to kiss away the intent frown.

It terrified her that one glance from him made her feel as if she were made of water and might flow away.

Marius raised his eyes and gave her a small smile, and she fought off a blush that he had caught her staring. She approached the telescope.

‘What is it?’

He smiled. ‘Take a look.’

Bending down, she peered into the instrument. All she could see was blackness; a smattering of unimportant stars. Disappointed, she leant back and glanced at Marius, who was looking intently at his watch.

‘Twelve…eleven…ten…’ he murmured. Perplexed, she asked him what was happening. He nodded at the telescope, unwilling to tear his eyes from his wrist. ‘Seven…six…five…’ Trusting his judgement she returned her gaze through the spyglass with only the least of impatient sighs. ‘Three…two…one…’

And then the sky exploded.

Cassiopeia’s breath stuck fast in her throat as she found herself unable to tear herself away from it, the splendour and magnificence, the diamond-white-red-peach fire on the blue-black blanket, the burning beauty, the majesty as the sky danced and danced and _danced._

‘A shooting star?’ she breathed, when she finally managed to fall back away from the lens.

He smiled. ‘Did you like it?’

Biting her lip, Cassiopeia answered after a pause. ‘You missed it.’ She looked down, her voice lower, if that was even possible. ‘You love stars.’

‘I wanted _you_ to see it…’ He sounded uncertain. ‘Just for you. My shooting star.’ He smiled tenderly at her, but her eyes were wide and her cheeks were white.

She stepped back, out of his reach, and her entire body seemed to shrink as she paled, like a withered flower. Her eyes were wide and cold and burning into him and he shivered.

When she spoke, at length, her voice was flat and there was a choking thickness of anger behind her stumbled words. ‘I…you…we…this isn’t _like that_. I am not your shooting star. I am not your anything. I am your _sister_ , and this is _…_ there is no _this_. I am not your star. I am nothing to you and _you_ are nothing to _me_. I…we… _can’t_. I won’t. I _won’t_. Good night.’ She turned on her heels and strode slightly unsteady towards the door.

His heart breaking, he watched her slim white hands wrestle in a surprisingly unladylike manner with the door handle. Her entire body swelled with the frustration, he saw he beautiful face fall, defeat painted like tar on her visage and tears began to descend. Without any recollection of moving, he found himself in front of her, pulled to her by the anger at seeing her feel anything but pure joy.

He placed a gentle hand on each of her arms, and she raised her chin to catch his gaze and she fell back into his hazel eyes and afterwards _(every time)_ she’d say that it was he who’d captured her lips, and she’d merely surrendered.

It was like the softest assault; tiny presses of his mouth against hers, the whispers of shared breath and the smooth warmth of his lips. It slowed her heart rate back down to healthy. But it didn’t evict the thoughts, the words in her head. She pulled back suddenly, eyes snapping open.

He frowned, his eyes so fearful, he was always so vulnerable.

‘ _More,_ ’ she whispered.

He raised an eyebrow slightly. ‘ _More?’_

‘More,’ she repeated, unblinking, ‘Harder, harsher.’ Her gaze bore into his. ‘I want to get lost.’

And he was gripping her through her thin lace gown so hard she felt bruises begin to form, and kissing her so thoroughly she wondered if when he was finished she’d be nothing more than a shadow, she felt the warm wooden door pressed against her back and the hard lines of _her twin brother_ pressed into her front and then his tongue was in her mouth, stroking hers, dancing with her own and it wasn’t her twin brother, it was just _Marius_ , who was a gasp and a moan and a mystery and confusion, chaos, who broke her into a million pieces as his hands pulled her hair so it hurt and that was the best, the best pain in the _whole world_ , because it let her forget the world, forget everything apart from _here_ and _now_ and _chaos_.

_\---_

_My dearest Melania,_

_I cannot sleep. I am haunted by your eyes. My hand itches to tenderly touch your cheek. I see you every day and every night. Our forced absence is the very death of me. Within a week I shall be nothing more than a corpse in a coffin – dead for the love of you._

_For I love you with every fibre of my being and bone in my body and I need you with me every moment. If I could have but one soft kiss, I should be happy. Yet I yearn for more. I dream of being yours forever; does my darling understand my meaning?_

_I enclose a small favour. Please frown not over the extravagance – I saw the stone and knew I could not live if it did not hang around your white, swan-like throat. And yet, now I wonder if even so lustrous a gem can ever attempt to match you in beauty, elegance and grace. All that remains is for me to promise you, without fear or favour, that I will love you deeper and more truly than you could ever image, love you that will never alter, love you that cannot change. I love you like no man has ever loved before._

_Will you meet me, tomorrow, on the beach? I shall die without your presence._

_Regards to your family, my beautiful rose,_

_Always yours,_

_Pollux_


	17. Periwinkle

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality. I also realise that I never really apologised for the despicable BFT-rape that occurs in this story but read it here: this story does not adhere to the dates of the BFT. Read and review?]** _

****

It was so tempting, so very tempting, to place a soft hand at the nape of her neck and wake her with a kiss. Perhaps to skate a hand across her collarbone and allow pressing pads of fingers to bring her back to the morning. Or maybe, maybe this was most tempting; to place his cheek beside hers and wait until the feeling of being a whole person roused her to wakening.

And yet when he considered reaching over her, he could not. She was so _peaceful,_ so soft and smooth and gentle in her angel-sleep. Even the desire of his body could not overcome the sheer beauty that a sleeping Cassiopeia exuded.

_Cassiopeia…_ And he whispered the name wistfully, drawing out each long syllable in five breaths that left him as breathless as the bearer of the title. She was such an enigma, even now. Now that she was his, and yet she wasn’t his, not really. Not while she was still _Potter’s._ And not while she was still scared.

She was so scared and it made her so cold and his heart was in a thousand pieces. He wanted to take her hand and take her a long way away from everyone else and show her how much he loved her. And yet, even that wouldn’t be enough. He knew. Running away from it wouldn’t work, because as hard as you try: you can go as far away as you like, and hate as much as you like, and forget as much as you like, but you can’t run away from what’s pumping through your veins. Black blood. So, so much thicker than water.

And he had run, and he had hated, and he had tried so, _so_ hard to forger. But that blood never left him, never could. Black blood. Red-Black blood.

Because sitting here on the edge of her bed, a heartbeat away from the one person he’d never not longed for, his blood felt like treacle, weighing him down as it crawled around his body, threatening to immobilize him from the shame and the guilt, because it was so _wrong_.

His twin began to wake, and any guilt fell the back of Marius’ mind as he swallowed whatever she had been about to say.

And then, sometime between Cassiopeia falling into his kiss and her awakening, he was gone. When, finally, her thoughts completed the journey from sleep to coherency, she could almost have believed that she had dreamt it, but for the shocking, swollen scarlet of her lip.

She muttered a Healing Charm and splashed her face with water. She felt as if in the last few weeks her mind had closed in on itself, become smaller and cramped as daily routines were forced out to allow more space for Marius’ face.

She was so far gone, she realised with a breathless half-sigh. So far gone that the line between _love_ and _obsession_ was as faded as the line between _brother_ and _Marius._

Shaking her head, Cassiopeia attempted to push him to the back of her mind and busied herself with hooks and eyes and smooth damask, navigating Curling Charms and cringing at her cousin’s decision for each of her bridesmaids to wear a garland of fat periwinkle Frog-lilies.

There were twenty bridesmaids, large and small, and Cassiopeia took her place among them, smiling socially at her parent’s guests and at her beaming cousin. The lavish decorations filled the whole house with colour and light; Cassiopeia found herself developing a headache. The merry, lively band did not help.

And, just as she was stepping dizzily into the garden, there he was, just like he always was, pressing a glass of port into her hand and stroking her hair and loving every inch of her without even trying.

And somehow now, her head spinning with lights and music and rust-ruby port, she wasn’t so scared anymore.

They returned to the ballroom, where a giggling Callidora and Harfang were cutting the cake with a glinting, goblin-made sword. Cassiopeia looked around at her family. Her history; the bloodlines and lifelines that held her together, even when she was falling apart.

Her parents looked on with practised detachment. But she could see past that, could see the age and vulnerability beginning to appear in her father’s eyes. She could see the envy in her mother’s that her son, nearly nine months Callidora’s senior, was yet unmarried and there was no heir to speak of.

Dorea’s sparkling eyes laughed silently as she watched her cousin struggle to wield the heavy piece of armoury. She stood alone, delicately sipping from a goblet of crisp white wine. She had grown taller and Cassiopeia realised with a shock how very beautiful she was, how strong and how independent.

Callidora’s sisters watched from a little way back. Charis stood with her pale, frowning husband by her side, her swollen belly protruding proudly from beneath her frothy, canary-yellow gown. Her face smiled broadly, but with a tinge of discomfort. Cassiopeia wondered if it might be to do with her own wedding, ten months previous, where she could not remember the bride and groom ever exchanging as much as a tender glance. The middle sister, Cedrella, stood as pale and floating and enigmatic as ever. She looked cursorily like her sisters – statuesque with auburn curls, but there was something different. Her eyes were not warm like maternal Charis’, nor bright like joyful Callidora’s. Cedrella looked lost, her thoughts clearly elsewhere and her expression almost wistfully calculating.

She saw Ariel and Victris Potter. _They are my future_ , she thought suddenly, and stopped to observe them for a while. What she saw made her cold, Mr Potter looking distractedly at his watch while his flapping wife attempted to control twin two-year-olds, Zola and Colette. These children, rambunctious in all the wrong ways, she realised with a start, were to be her nieces.

Charlus had urgent business at the Ministry, he had sent his apologies. Something hidden and secret inside her had celebrated.

Marius’ hand was warm and strong on the small of her back, somewhere close and distant.

The sword swung down and a crowd of white doves flew out of the cake. The assembled crowd clapped and Harfang clutched his new wife’s wrist and reeled her in and kissed her deeply. Callidora fell out of the kiss laughing and Cassiopeia knew, suddenly, that her cousin would laugh like that for the rest of her days.

They fit like jigsaw pieces and Cassiopeia’s heart broke, because they could _tell everyone_ , could shout it from the rooftops and ring out the bells for their love. But she knew love.

And in Marius’ hand, she felt it. In his eyes she saw it.

And should couldn’t be scared anymore.

Like a feather, she began to float, pulling Marius back onto the dance floor. _A fury of colour and motion._

From behind her, Cassiopeia suddenly heard a voice, murmuring so low she had to strain her ears to hear its words. Pollux’ voice, taut and tense, sounding young and alone as he whispered.

‘Melania, my beauty. Why didn’t you come?’ 


	18. Umber

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality. This chapter is rated hard R for the insinuation of extremely inappropriate sexuality.]** _

_Previously: ‘Melania, my beauty. Why didn’t you come?’_

Melania McMillan paled and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine – a tingling of half-fear, half-excitement. Pollux Black…she had almost forgotten him in the wave of emotions that had recently swept over her. And now he came crashing back into her mind and she had to take a deep breath before she could turn to face him.

And what she saw in his face was unbearable. That crushed hope, that deep and unrequited love that held no bounds. He reached for her wrist and she was powerless to his leading her outside. As a blast of fresh, cool air pulled at her face she opened her mouth to speak but he gave her a wordless look and she followed with an uncharacteristic docility.

Yet it was too much, now, on the beach with the chafing sand and the sliver of sun on the horizon, with the frills of the sea lapping at her toes and she felt shamefully, distressingly close to tears.

Staring at the sand, she felt his eyes on her and looked up. But that passion and that fear, that hatred and that betrayal were so painful that in the end she just glanced away.

‘Melania…’ He murmured.

‘I…I’m sorry,’ she whispered, but the words stuck in her throat. The corners of her mouth began to creep up very slightly and suddenly she’d never felt less sorry in her life.

His face was ashen with two burnished red spots on his cheekbones and his eyes were so _wide,_ so young and innocent, with unshed tears glistening in their corners and the malice within her fed on them greedily as the baby at the breast.

‘I don’t understand…’ He caught her eye for a moment, before looking away. What he saw in her eyes was as unbearable as what she saw in his own.

She breathed slowly, indulging in the moment, taking her sweet time to inhale so _slowly_ and hold the breath for three long, wistful seconds and then exhaling until her lungs were entirely devoid of air. She felt cleansed, cleansed of guilt and docility and remorse. She felt free and youthful once more.

Smiling her wide smile, the smile that had captivated so many useless young men, she reached over slowly and clasped his hand.

He felt it at once; it sent an unpleasant bolt of lightning through his body and his stomach turned over, leaving him feeling weak and terrified within the second that his long fingers touched hers. He raised her hand to his lips, but did not kiss her fingers.

Frowning, he ran a tentative finger over the signet ring adorning the so-adult fourth digit of her left hand, and just for a moment he dared to believe it was true as his fingertips grazed the shield, the stars, the dogs.

‘The Black Family coat of arms?’ He muttered, breathing each syllable. He paused for what felt like forever, and Melania watched him almost indifferently, waiting for his mind to turn through this new development. ‘But…’ _here it comes,_ she internalised ‘…I never gave this to you.’ 

Moments like this go on forever, turning over and over like the waves of the sea, the dawning realisation which began to appear in his eyes, suppressed as if every fibre of his body wanted to _not_ have this knowledge. 

He raised his bowed head to meet her eyes but for once, for the first time, something inside of her _(surely not guilt?)_ couldn’t hold his gaze and she tried to turn away, her eyes seeking the umber sand and the lapping water, the colour of dying cornflowers. But he grabbed her chin in strong fingers and wrenched her face to meet his. His skin was as luminously white as the moonlight and his eyes narrowed.

‘Melania...’ And even with the bitter strength in his voice he let the soft syllables of her name die away naturally, as if something, somewhere in him couldn’t bear to deny her beauty. ‘I loved you. I love you.’

This was not a question, and so she had no answer.

After an achingly long moment, as his eyes implored her to make it easy for him, he parted his lips and, crushingly, finally asked her.

‘Who is it?’

Reaching to her face with two hands, she smoothed her curls back behind her ears and raised her chin. ‘His name is Arcturus.’

A face swam vaguely into his mind. A cousin or uncle of his, collar-length black hair slicked back from a pale-eyed face. A curled lip. A sneer.

‘Arcturus Black?’ he asked, and he didn’t know why, really, but maybe if he kept asking questions some of the answers would fill the aching chasm which was growing inside of him.

She nodded, and a hint of a supercilious smile began to appear on her lips and Merlin help him, he wanted to _burn_ it off her face.

And yet this anger, this burning rage, remained stubbornly inside him and his next question came in a voice he barely recognised, choked and thin and reedy.

‘Why?’

Her eyes widened and sparkled when he asked this. No one had ever asked her this, she realised suddenly, and she felt an abrupt desperation to tell him, _show_ him, let him see her for what she was, what she wanted and why, in the end, she could never have married him.

She clutched his hand again and, despite himself, he flinched at the spark that ran between them.

Pulling at his arm she smiled a maniacal smile and gestured further along the beach. ‘Come with me.’

And they ran along the edge of the water around the edge of the cliffs at the curve of the bay like lovers, almost-laughing as if he hadn’t just had his heart broken by she.

_A fury of colour and motion._   


She dragged him into a dark cove the other side of the white cliffs and with a whispered _‘Lumos’_ he could make out her features, glowing pink in the darkness. He only fell back to earth and noticed the inappropriateness of the situation when she reached behind herself and began to unbutton her gown, allowing the jade material to fall in swathes from her slim body.

His mouth began to open and close, goldfish-like, until, with difficulty, he pulled himself together.

‘Mela—Miss McMillan, what on earth are you doing?’

She looked up at him as the last hook of her gown came undone and the dress fell to the floor.

‘You asked me why, Pollux,’ she replied with bright eyes and the widest, most genuinely happy smile he could ever remember her wearing. ‘This is why.’

Dressed in nothing but her underwear and sharp-heeled shoes, the reddish glow from her wand the only light in the cave, she turned around and showed him her bare back, flecked with red marks and black bruises, handprints and the imprint here and there of a belt buckle, shocking colour against pure white skin. 

_**[Sorry that it's been so long - like four months but, well, I've had a lot of work and the such. But fear not, I shan't leave this story unfinished forever. I hope this chapter is enjoyed and that people understand a little more about Melania -- read and review!]**_   



	19. Amethyst

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]** _

Love was such an ugly word.

The mere semantics of it, the guttural sound of the central vowel and the final consonant, that ‘v’ of _violence_ and _violation_ and _vitriol_. There are some words that one can hear the danger in – like _slaughter_ or _murder_. _Murder_ can’t be said in high-pitched voice, never laughed, said lightly. It’s to do with the depth of the vowel, to do with the juxtaposition of the rhyming syllables. Even a child, a child who understands nothing of language and meaning, of wielding words like knives, is sobered by such a word.

And _love_ was such a word.

Cassiopeia could see the word everywhere, painted in ugly, muted tones around the walls of her mind. Could feel it creeping through her bones and slipping through her veins: this grotesque idea. As if love were a disease, a viscous liquid like mercury that she had swallowed. Love was like treacle: so sticky-sweet, delicious on first tasting, but the reality of it was catching up with her.

She whispered it, as she sat in the sun-dappled grass at the end of the garden. It was one of Marius’ favourite places, down past the end of the orchard and so away from everyone else. She had come down here a number of hours ago for a breath of fresh air to clear her head. The faint wish that Marius might find her here and kiss her into oblivion barely crossed her mind.

_Love._

A whisper.

_Love._

A call.

_I love you._

An exhalation. A sense of defeat _(why? Where had that come from?)_ and of resignation to an ugly, shameless love.

She rolled onto her back, closing her eyes as the sun hit her tissue-paper eyelids, and relaxed. Her marriage thundered nearer and nearer, her betrothed lived along the corridor from her _(just one door down from Marius – oh, Marius)_ , and her blood was Black as ever and yet she relaxed. All she could do, swimming in this sea of ugly, wondrous love, was attempt to stay still and float on top, else she might drown.

She heard, behind her, the sound of heavy footsteps, taken by men’s boots. Had she been in a more focussed frame of mind, she might have recalled her beloved’s slight frame and favoured slim shoes. As it was, she merely bent one knee up, coquette-style, and relaxed her face, waiting for his kiss with thrilled anticipation.

‘Sister, you look positively wanton. Make yourself decent, for Merlin’s sake.’ 

A sneering tone, a gruffer voice that could only belong to Pollux. Forcing herself, with every ounce of Black self-control she possessed, to show neither her embarrassment nor her yearning for Marius _(and where was he, she wondered in aggravation),_ she slowly sat up against a tree and dusted off her cordovan housedress before looking up at her brother with her customary blank stare. To her surprise he had removed his outer robe and sat down nearby, looking up to the canopy of leaves above them.

After a long moment, Pollux looked over to her, and his face looked younger and more vulnerable than she could ever recall. ‘What were you thinking about?’ he asked in a low, somehow urgent voice.

She replied honestly. ‘Love.’

His eyes widened at that, just for a second, before narrowing in dismissal. ‘You cannot know love at seventeen.’

Angered, she replied, ‘If I cannot know love at seventeen, brother, then you cannot know it at twenty.’ He turned to give her a retort, but she silenced him with her words. ‘After all, my seventeen is far closer to walking down the aisle than your twenty.’ And for the first time her marriage had done her some good.

He looked down, before speaking again in that low, naked voice. 

‘Sometimes love and marriage do not coincide.’ He paused before adding. ‘And sometimes there is too much love coming from all the wrong places. And sometimes love isn’t right, or it’s too right, too perfect, imperfect and...and I...I...’

She watched him passively said nothing as he wound himself round and round. Slowly, he calmed, breathed in, and began to speak again.

‘What if what we always thought love to be was a lie? What if we were in love with something that never existed, something that could never exist? What if love was merely a hoax, concocted by hundreds of years of deceivers? Love hurts, but pain is what some people dream of, what some people want. Is love the same for every person, or different for each of us? Love...’ he paused, unsure of what he was saying. ‘It isn’t beautiful, is it?’

This was addressed to her, and it echoed her musings shockingly well. ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘Actually, it’s very ugly.’

Ashen-faced, he glanced at her and nodded.

‘I heard about the wedding.’ She spoke softly, but the syllables were distinct.

He looked up. ‘Which wedding? _Your_ wedding?’

Her face softened. ‘No, brother, not my wedding. Miss Melania’s wedding. To our cousin. In two months time.’

If the blood could have drained out of his face more, it would have. ‘Oh. Indeed. Have they posted the banns?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Ah.’

She spoke no further, didn’t need to ask to know that her brother’s heart was breaking and breaking. She needed no words from him to feel his pain. But she received them nonetheless.

‘She should have been _mine_ ,’ he murmured, and she had not the heart to describe to him the disgust in Miss Melania’s eyes as she danced with him, or the happy submission when she stood by her now-fiancé. ‘ _I_ loved her. I loved her more than he could ever. I love her still, and I shall be forced to stand by and see her married to him.’

‘But Pollux,’ she whispered, and she knew not why she had to tell him. ‘She loves you not. Don’t you see?’

His eyes were vacant and filled with tears _(shining crystal and amethyst in the sunlight)_ as she left him.

And as she ran to her room she realised, like a burst of lightning, that she would be the Melania to Marius’ Pollux.

But she loved him. More than life itself.

And she ran into his room, where he sat reading star charts and before he even had the chance to say ‘Good day’ or ‘Are you well?’ she pulled him onto her and lay herself on the bed and lost herself, desperately, in his kiss. And each kiss said _I love you, ugly or not, I love you and I’ll never hurt you, as long as I shall live._

And because he was Marius, and madness and magic, he didn’t ask why. And that was what made him perfect.

_Chaos._


	20. Charcoal

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]** _

Buying bread, he could feel eyes on the back of his neck, a prickling, skin-crawling sensation and he shook his head, trying to ignore it. As he turned to leave he caught sight of a slim shadow vanishing around a corner. As he went about his business – helping old Mrs Greenfinch to move her heavy cabinet, drinking tea at work with his sister, lying on the green at lunchtime, he felt eyes on him. He felt watched. Violated.

It wasn’t new, this sensation. It had been growing, developing for weeks.

He was even beginning to build up a picture of her: a slim, female build, a perfect head of auburn curls, tall with skin crystal-pale. The slip and rattle as she guiltily snuck behind trees or buildings.

It was a chase as he attempted to shake her off, scared and intrigued and breathing heavily, unsure as to whether or not he ever wanted to talk to her.

And yet she was so strangely sexual, this creature who followed him: she wore only a slim red dress and her skin was so purely white and he was excited by her, despite himself.

There she was on the bench outside the post office.

And he went in to speak to Robert and Florence about normal, everyday things, like their health and the weather and, muttered in Robert’s ear covertly, the Quidditch results.

And those grey eyes cataloguing his every move.

And behind the bench near the smithy.

He sat to tie his shoe and he could see those bright eyes in the shadows like a cat, lying in wait.

Under the porch of the library.

And he tried to read the papers quietly _(a child had scribbled on the obituaries, so infuriating, why could father not afford a fresh one daily)_ but there she was, lurking behind the stacks, watching. He felt like a fly in her web.

Behind a tree on the green.

_Eyes on him, focus on him, that burning, blinding energy so hot, so strong, so deadly..._

And now he was in front of her, hands on either side of her shoulders, trapping her.

 ‘You’ve been following me.’

And she could not deny it.

‘You’re not from the village.’

She said nothing, but reached out a hand to touch his rough, stubbly cheek with the kind of dazed courage of a woman who has lost all control of rhyme and rhythm and routine. Stroking along the cheekbone, she silenced him and he watched her with those beautiful eyes that had been driving her mad for more than two years.

‘Who _are_ you?’ he whispered, but the accusation in his voice had vanished.

She smiled slightly, her eyes creased and her cheeks turning slightly pink. He raised his calloused palm and covered her hand on his cheek, stilled for a moment before prising it from his face. “Who are you?” he repeated, yet more softly.

“My name is Cedrella.”

“Cedrella.” He repeated in hushed tones and even though they were on the village green in broad daylight, she liked it that they were whispering, because this wasn’t a conversation just for anyone to hear.

She parted her lips to ask his name, but was suddenly stopped by a shocked glance from him. The soft trust that had curled in his eyes now burnt black and his cheeks burned. He dropped her hand as if it burnt him and made as if to run away.

Her dazed courage gave her sudden strength and she grasped his shoulders. “My love!” she cried, and there were no hushed tones now. “Whatever is the matter?”

His face was naked fear. “Cedrella...Black?”

And now it was her turn to let go of him, to turn white, to bite her lip until it stained red and to fear.

“How do you know my family?” she demanded in choked voice. “Who are you? I thought you were a...”

“A Muggle?” he finished bitterly. “You thought I was nothing, didn’t you? A Muggle toy to play with behind the backs of your family. Black bitch.” He turned to stride away.

“No!” she cried, and suddenly felt that pulsing, that spark and crackle inside of her, that explosion that she hadn’t felt since she was a small girl and he was by her side again and she had lost every iota of control as she crushed his lips to hers.

He pulled back, but her hand on the back of his neck kept him an inch away from her face and she didn’t care who was watching. “Who are you?” she whispered.

He looked down for a moment, sighing, before looking defiantly into her eyes. “My name is Septimus Weasley.” He watched as her charcoal eyes widened ever-so-slightly at the name. “So I suppose I am nothing to you anyway.”

“Nothing?” she asked softly. “I love you.”

She closed her eyes, waiting for the crushing blow, to be told that she was ridiculous, childish, overblown. Waiting to be told that she was nothing more than a Black whose overinflated ego assumed she could have any man she chose. Waiting for _I won’t be your piece of rough_ or _you’re mad, you_ or a mere pithy _leave me alone_. But they didn’t come. After a pause so long she thought she might die, all she felt was a pair of soft lips on hers and a calloused hand in her auburn curls.

_The second daughter, the middle of three, and the despised one too._

And this was romance.  


She felt him pull back and reluctantly opened her eyes and he gazed into them, so wide and full of innocence, fear and love. “My mother,” he faltered, “told me that Black girls aren’t allowed to love.” He sighed. “She told me they didn’t know how to feel.”

“I’m not like the rest of them.” She whispered. “I feel too much.”

All he could do was fall back into her kiss, allowing her words to caress his mind again, clutching her hand. He felt her eyes on him again and realised, suddenly, that he would not be able to live without them. 


	21. Ivory

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]** _

Summer had gripped the English countryside, and the manor house was almost stiflingly hot. The Cooling Charms on the bedrooms were beginning to buckle under the strain and Violetta was repeatedly sending Kaula and the other house-elves to soak towels in ice. The household was beginning to change. Young Mr Crouch had taken his wife away from her childhood home. Charis had not been seen since she had blessed Phineas Nigellus Black with his first, long-awaited great-grandchild. Eurydice Crouch had not merited a visit from any of her relatives, and the only mention her great-grandfather had made was to sniff that that side of the family seemed destined never to have a male heir _._

The days were lazy and the gardens were gleaming and the air hung with anticipation.

It was somewhere between half past ten and eleven o’clock in the morning when all hell broke loose.

In the shadow of the house, Marius sat amongst the roses: velvet red and light white, soft peach and dainty lilac. He watched the butterflies and bees buzz around him; the sun dappled around him and he breathed in the warm air. There was something pure and idyllic, like a picture in a book, not quite real and more breakable than glass. A bird sang, the church bell chimed down the lane. 

Cassiopeia was sat in the courtyard at a thin wrought-iron table, sipping tea and nibbling toast with bitter orange marmalade. Charlus had sent word the night before that he would arrive late that morning, and hoped she would grace him with breakfast. Hungry and unwilling to spend longer than was necessary for propriety with him, she had made a rather impolite start.

Smiling softly to herself, she curled her left hand round to stretch a finger down her sleeve, using the fingertip to stroke the thin sheet of paper. When she had awakened, it was to a tiny paper dancer pirouetting around her pillow. With delight she had held out a delicate hand, and at her touch the dancer had lain out by her side and become a scrap of parchment with the words _“Noon, the rose bed. M.”_ The thought of him, waiting there for her in the softly scented bower send a thrill through her even as she contemplated taking tea with Charlus.

The clock had quite recently struck the half-hour. And suddenly, a strident cry filled the air and Cassiopeia’s daydreams came to a very sudden end.

“Violetta! Oh, my dear sister! My dear Violetta, where are you?”

Her aunt Lysandra sounded queer, Cassiopeia thought. She had never heard her so distressed, so honestly unhappy. She was rather a flapping creature, fussing over her daughters, prone to swooning and never far from her smelling salts. Her girlish cry was as much part of the sound of the house as the calm click-clack of her mother’s customary heels or the decisive slam of her father’s study. But this was no girlish cry, no shrill or piercing squeal. It was a call of desperation. A cry for help.

Her mother’s tall frame filled the window Cassiopeia was watching with jade silk, calling up the stairs to her sister-in-law.

“Lysandra, my dear, what on earth is the matter?”

Her aunt bowled down the stairs, past Violetta and out the French windows to the courtyard where Cassiopeia was sat in one smooth and sobbing movement.

“The _shame_. The _shame_ of it,” she declared, falling into Charlus’ chair opposite a somewhat stunned Cassiopeia.

Violetta followed her out, her face creased into concern and stooped over the weeping woman, gingerly offering her a clean handkerchief. She looked decidedly uncomfortable, and Cassiopeia took pity on her.

“My dear aunt, you must tell my mother what the matter is. We are all left in suspense.”

Lysandra raised her head slowly, still snivelling; wide cobalt eyes sopping wet and leaking, cheeks burnished red. She took a few moments to collect herself, before sighing deeply, shaking slightly.

She breathed slowly, eyes blinking wildly. “My daughter....my daughter has...has...” She descended into lamentation once more. Violetta awkwardly stroked her back and patted her arm, trying to catch her daughter’s eye. But Cassiopeia was looking straight ahead. Violetta turned to see what she was staring at.

Young Callidora, still wearing her wedding ring with awkwardness, walked slowly towards her mother, face pale as a sheet, eyes dark like tunnels and, clutched in her hand, a stiff, ivory card.

Automatically, Cassiopeia held out her hand with the knowledge that only old female friends have. Callidora handed it to her. She turned it over, and began to read aloud.

“Your presence is cordially requested at the wedding of Miss Cedrella Black to Mr Septimus Weasley, at the Blacksmith’s, Gretna Green, at three o’clock on Wednesday the...this was yesterday!”

Cassiopeia looked up in astonishment at three faces, her mother’s open red mouth, her aunt’s running eyes and Callidora’s stony-eyed glare.

“Eloped!” Aunt Lysandra screeched, having suddenly found her voice again. “She’s eloped...with a _Weasley!”_

Callidora knelt before her mother, taking her hand and stroking her cheek, murmuring soft words with a half-smile that did not extend to her eyes. Violetta sucked in her breath through her teeth, turned on her heels and awkwardly stalked back into the house. Wordlessly, Cassiopeia rose and turned to leave.

And four steps into her journey, she walked straight into someone tall and dark, who held her in his arms as she shook and shook. She allowed her arms to encircle him and her spider fingers to weave into his hair. 

After what felt like an hour, she stepped back and looked up into his face in surprise.

“Charlus!” She hesitated, straightening her frock awkwardly and looking down, tucking her hair behind her ears in an atypical youthful, graceless gesture. “I...I didn’t...there’s been something of a crisis, I’m afraid. Please allow me to take a turn elsewhere.”

Frowning slightly, he nodded. “Yes...yes, of course. Is everything alright, my love?”

_I am_ not _your love,_ she thought petulantly.

“Everything’s fine. Kaula will find you something to eat. Good day, sir.”

She stalked away from him, her head spinning, and an idea growing slowly in her mind.

From across the garden, Marius watched the couple embrace, watched Potter curl his arms around her and inhale the scent of her soft hair. They looked so natural together; her pale coronet lay softly on his shoulder, his arms fit perfectly around her slender form. They would make such a beautiful married couple.

Turning away, he dragged the rough cuff of his sleeve across his cheeks. And if a hot salt drip landed on his collar, it was dripping sap from the trees above him. 


	22. Emerald

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality. This chapter is rated hard R for explicity inappropriate sexuality. And this chapter is a rather belated birthday present for Sara, who I love dearly, and who will squee at it's contents (I hope).]** _

“Marius!”

The thin, dark figure vanished from sight.

_“Marius!”_

Gathering up her skirts, Cassiopeia delicately dashed across the lawn, eyes scanning the thickets at the bottom of the garden for the shadowy form. Here and there she thought she could discern movement, a shadowy presence that could just have easily been a beast roaming the woods, or merely the rustle of disturbed trees. She called out his name again, allowing a note of irritation to enter her voice.

Taking out her wand, she muttered _“Homenum revelio”._

And entered the forest.

Like crossing the threshold of a family home, the woods at the end of the Manor estate seemed to have their own atmosphere, like a wall of heat on a cold day. The air was thinner here, and the silence far denser. The light, filtered through the trees held a different quality to the garish brightness outside. Cassiopeia could almost feel the cracking of magic in the air. She shivered. Anything could happen here.

There, ahead of her, in the blanketing dark ahead, the glow of her charm. Taking a deep breath, she set on his trail.

Further she followed him into the forest, deeper, from clearing to clearing, never losing him, never catching him up, but he just kept going, that faint glow just in the distance, untouchable.

_A fury._

The forest had turned against her, the skeletal branches creeping out and reaching for her face, stumps appearing unseen before her attempting to trip her up, the sunbeams through the foliage suddenly blinding emerald behind the dark.

She kept running, onwards through the undergrowth, until her whole world twisted like a kaleidoscope and she could feel her heart beating hard in her breast and her dress was ripped, her hair loose and behind her eyes blackness began to envelope her like an old friend, like the comfort of family, the unfamiliar encircling arms of a lover. 

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a bat flapped into her face. Shrieking, she grabbed at her face, but the leathery wings kept striking at her face, she could feel claws, hear a high-pitched squeal and then there were more – black things all around her – she screamed but no one was listening, no one could hear her...

She fell to the ground.

Silence.

And then, footsteps, far off, light and rapid, louder, getting closer, she could hear better now, the snapping of branches and the rustling of leaves as someone ran towards her, his breathing was shallow and she could hear him pant lightly as he came closer and closer to her as she lay on the forest floor, her eyes closed, but the sunlight through the trees still pricking at her lids.

His hand was caressing her cheek, his voice ringing with urgency in her ears and slowly she could discern the words, her name, over and over again.

Her eyelids fluttered open and reaching up she wrapped firm fingers around the back of his neck and pulled him down to kiss her, slow and burning hot, and tasting of sad longing.

She pulled away again and looked up at him. His dark head was silhouetted against the shining white sky and he’d never looked more beautiful than right then, breathing heavy and slightly flushed, hair dishevelled and that pain in his eyes, like betrayal.

_But there’s pain in her eyes too, as if each has stabbed the other in the back and perhaps it is the Black in them both which revels in the shared heartbreak._

Swallowing hard, she parted her lips and whispered imperiously. “Never run away from me again.”

He looked down, biting his lip for less than a moment, before glancing back up and holding her gaze, nodding.

She looked up at him, a half-smile starting to grow on her lips. “Run away _with_ me.”

The flush in his cheeks paled and his eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t speak. His fingers, which had stilled on her cheek, stroked slowly across her face, outlining her lips softly, before suddenly, sharply, he flattened his hand over her mouth and pressed her to the forest floor. She went stiff, eyes fearful and his expression was stony.

Infinitesimally slowly, he lifted his hand from her mouth, and she lay still and silent. He looked her up and down where she lay out on the ground. Her black gown was rent in a thousand places, smudged with dust and dirt, stuck with burrs and leaves. As she had fallen, she had stepped on the hem of her dress and torn the lace embroidery on the front. By her left ear, a small sprinkling of blossom had settled on her shoulder.

Marius reached down and took hold of one torn side of her skirt. With absolute focus, he tugged slightly.

The bird-like ripping sound burst into the darkness like a hurricane. Marius examined the three inch rip cautiously, breathing shallowly.

He tugged again. Harder. Another five inches. He tugged again. A further three.

Cassiopeia’s cheeks grew hot. She didn’t move. She wasn’t sure she could have had she wanted to.

Marius let go of her skirt, and gazed unblinking at the thin, white leg that had appeared from beneath the fabric. And then, running his tongue over his dry lips, he placed his hand on her calf.

She gasped.

The skin of her leg felt so different to that of her face. Still smooth, like china, but warmer, slightly damp behind the knee from the exertion of running. Her leg felt more real than her face ever had. He wasn’t sure if he was entirely comfortable with her being real.

He caressed her, slowly, watching with euphoric fascination as this simple touch made her eyes fall shut and her head tilt back. Bringing his fingers down again to the back of her knee, he slowly dug his nail in until she opened her eyes in shock and looked up at him. Holding her gaze, he smiled an unfamiliar, rakish smile as he ran his forefinger unhurriedly along the crook of her knee, collecting the drip of sweat that had collected there. Flashing his eyes at her, he placed the finger in his mouth and sucked obscenely on it.

Cassiopeia nearly fainted, and felt the darkness begin to encroach again. But now they were together. The only two people in the world to believe in the light.

Grasping his wrist with her hand, she pulled the finger from his mouth and placed it in her own. Suckling gently on the digit, she licked all around his nail and bit down slightly on the soft flesh. Marius’ face was sheer rapture, his whole body radiating heat.

She sucked harder, and he let out a voiceless, breathless sound, almost a croak in the back of his throat, as if he was unable to keep silent, but she had removed his capacity for speech.

And then she spat him out.

“Run away with me.” She repeated, insistently.

He looked at her, his face flushed and naked, his body throbbing with heat and fear and want.

He closed his eyes. He breathed deeply. He opened his eyes.

He stood up.

“I won’t run away.”

He looked down at her, sitting on the dank, leafy ground, one pure, white leg still slightly pink from the heat of his hand. He looked at her face, crumpled and flushed rose. He looked at her lips, pert cherries, and something deep within him roared for release.

“I won’t run away.” He repeated. But certainty sounded like desperation and a hiss sounded more like a lustful whisper.

He turned.

He ran away from her. 


	23. Burgundy

_**[Warning: This story is rated R for inappropriate sexuality.]** _

Blazing sun burnt down all afternoon, moving fluidly across the sky until ducking behind the poplar trees at the far end of the forest and Cassiopeia lay where he had left her, without even the fight left to hide her immodest bare leg.

Tears trickled down her cheeks, pooling on her neck and chest, in the grooves of her lips and the dent of her clavicle. A soft breeze passed over her and she shivered as the water cooled from her skin.

Seventeen years previous, a half-smiling, half-weeping Violetta Black had watched her newborn babies finally asleep under black lace coverlets. She beckoned to her young house-elf, newly employed and eager to please, who ran to her side softly.

“Keep them safe”, Violetta had murmured urgently.

Youthful and a little afraid, Kaula had nodded, blinking rapidly, and tucked them in a little tighter.

With a _crack_ she appeared a little way off, and stood stock-still for a moment, wondering if Miss Cassiopeia would hear, if she’d run. But she didn’t. She lay still, shallowly breathing, as smooth and silent as beneath the coverlets, all those years ago. Kaula’s bones were rather older now, but the swelling of emotion had not changed. 

She moved to Miss Cassiopeia’s side, and looked her up and down with her large, liquid eyes, and silently knelt beside her, stroking her hair and wiping her tears.

“Oh, Miss...” she murmured quietly, and hooked those cream locks behind those delicate ears.

A pale hand suddenly covered her, and Cassiopeia’s pale eyes looked at her with a sudden desperation, her cheeks flushed burgundy with tears. “Kaula,” she murmured.

The house-elf merely blinked slowly in response. 

“Oh, Kaula, you cannot help me,” Cassiopeia whispered desperately. “Oh, Kaula, I am quite destroyed.”

_Keep them safe._

Shaking almost imperceptibly, the house-elf straightened Miss Cassiopeia’s skirts and with a _crack_ of elf-magic, sent her back to her bedchamber in the house. She darkened, she darkened, she darkened the room.

Kaula put her head calmly and quietly into the oven.

He’d always been good with his hands, had Marius, and as he deftly folded the squares of parchment into tiny cranes, as Kaula had once taught him, he felt the flame-lick of confidence that there was something, _something_ in this world that he could do.

He folded the next piece of parchment in two. He couldn’t face her.

Every time, this happened _every time,_ that despite her being his twin, his other half, his whole damned universe, baring his soul to her was just too hard, and he couldn’t cope with her afterwards.

He didn’t know how, didn’t know why, but the energy, the electricity, the _magic_ between them was unbearable. His skin crawled and his toes curled and his legs felt weak and shook.

His hands itched somehow. He could still _feel_ her skin under his fingers, he could feel the porcelain, the slight tingle of his shaking, the heat, he could almost feel her pulse, the pump of her black, black blood.

_Is it so wrong that I dream of you? Is it so wrong that you inhabit my every thought, my very soul, my entire being? Cassiopeia, oh, Cassiopeia._

He set the next crane down and began the next one.

She was the _other side of the wall_. He could feel it. Somehow, without any semblance of sense or reason, he knew with absolute certainty that she was lain out on her bed, practically debauched, thinking of him.

_A fury of colour and motion._

He sighed, and began another crane.

It was getting monotonous now. Repetitive, even dull. One step forward, one step back. Neither one could truly confess themselves, and neither had to. She knew his heart and he knew hers.

But the steps forward were getting bigger, and the steps backwards were steadily shrinking. His skin tingling was an itching, throbbing reminder of that. There was a line to cross. There was a point of no return and they were inching closer and closer to it. They were rushed by the current to the waterfall and neither could resist the plunge.

Perhaps he hadn’t even realised it before. Sweet kisses, shared breath. Stolen moments in the Observatory, it was so sticky, sickly, far too innocent and now he was staring in the face of cold, hard fact. He could talk about love as much as he wanted, he had thought about it for hours, considered it, smiled over it, been delighted, revolted, disgusted...yet now it felt so foolish. They had been like children, so naive, so _stupid._

He felt so blind, so ridiculous for not having seen the hideous destination they were moving towards. _(another fold, another twist, another meaningless distortion of the same blank canvas)_ And now it was too late, in it too deep, and there was nothing he could do.

Because this, _this_ was love. This was the sinking, swallowing quicksand that he had felt himself in before, that he had convinced himself was as bad as it was going to get.

He had thought that that was it, love, happy ever after, that was passion.

But this.

_This_ was how much deeper he had to fall.

He was on his knees, hands pushed hard, flat against the wall, bony wrists sticking out. He choked out sobs, pressing his cheek to the smooth paintwork, just a few inches away from her, anything to be closer to her. His eyes were wide and manic, his fingers raking at the wall, scratching and scraping, trying to claw his way into the next room like a wild thing, uncontrolled, uncontrollable, like nothing he had ever imagined, could ever imagine. And this, _this_ was love. 

On the other side of the wall, a sober Cassiopeia Black silently wept, whispering her love into the candlelit room. In the looking-glass she caught her own reflection, and she had never looked so ugly, so alone, so unloved.

“Marius, my Marius. Where _are_ you?” 


End file.
